LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


ALONG   THE   TRAIL 


BY   RICHARD    HOVEY 

LAUNCELOT    AND    GUENEVERE 
A  Poem  In  Dramas 

I.    THE  QUEST  OF  MERLIN     .     .  $1.25 

A  Masque 

II.    THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GUENEVERE     1.50 
A  Tragedy 

III.  THE  BIRTH  OF  GALAHAD  .      .     1.50 

A  Romantic  Drama 

IV.  TALIESIN i.oo 

A  Masque 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY,  BOSTON 


ALONG 
THE  TRAIL 

A    BOOK    OF    LYRICS 
BY  RICHARD    HOVEY 


,.  -      ;  BOSTON 

0^  SMALL,  MAYNARD 

C£j^  AND  COMPANY 

1903 


Copyright,  1898 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 


Ml  rights  restrvfd 


First  Edition,  December,  1898 
Second  Edition,  March,  1899 
Third  Edition,  October,  1903 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


9  if  3 

TO   MY   MOTHER 


155013 


The  thanks  of  the  author  and  the  publishers 
are  diie  to  Messrs.  Copeland  and  Day  for 
their  kind  permission  to  use  such  extracts 
from  Songs  from  Vagabondia  and  More 
Songs  from  Vagabondia  as  were  necessary 
in  order  to  print  "Comrades,"  "Spring," 
and  "The  Faun  "  in  this  volume  with  their 
complete  text. 


CONTENTS 


THE  WORD  OF  THE  LORD  FROM  HAVANA     ...  3 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  BUGLES 5 

UNMANIFEST  DESTINY 16 

AMERICA 17 

II 

DEAD 21 

FORGIVEN 23 

LOVE  AND  CHANGE 24 

LAUNCELOT  AND  GAWAINE 26 

MY  LADY'S  SOUL 26 

AFTER  BUSINESS  HOURS 27 

THE  THOUGHT  OF  HER 28 

LOVE  IN  THE  WINDS 28 

Two  AND  FATE 29 

FAITH  AND  FATE 29 

CHANSONS  DE  ROSEMONDE 30 

A  WANDERER 32 

THE  LOVE  OF  A  BOY  —  YESTERDAY 33 

THE  LOVE  OF  A  BOY  —  TO-DAY 34 

AN  OFF-SHORE  VILLANELLE 35 

To  LESBIA 36 

NOCTURNE 37 

THE  Two  LOVERS      .    • 37 

APPARITION 38 

SUMMER  SADNESS 39 

"SPRUNG  FROM  THE  VASE'S  BULGE  AND  LEAP"    .  40 

"  BALMY  WITH  YEARS,  WHAT  SILKEN  PLY  "      .    .  41 

HERODIAS 41 

III 

COMRADES 47 

ONE  LEAF  MORE 55 

SPRING 56 

MEN  OF  DARTMOUTH 66 

THE  OLD  PINE 68 

IN  MEMORIAM.     (A.  H.  Q.) 68 

ix 


PAGE 

DARTMOUTH  ODE 69 

A    WINTER   THOUGHT   OF  DARTMOUTH  IN   MAN 
HATTAN    75 

OUR  LIEGE  LADY,  DARTMOUTH          78 

HANOVER  WINTER-SONG 79 

IV 

THE  FAUN 83 

SWALLOW  SONG 90 

A  HEALTH.     To  E.  C.  S 91 

THE  DRAMATIST.    To  M.  K.      ........  92 

DELSARTE 92 

WORLD  AND  POET 92 

THE  SOUTH 93 

A  CAPRICE  OF  OGAROW.    To  M.  P 93 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 94 

BEETHOVEN'S  THIRD  SYMPHONY 94 

AUGUST 95 

A  BALLADE  OF  MYSTERIES 96 

THE  SHADOWS 97 

ANGRO-MAINYUS 98 

IMMANENCE- 100 

TRANSCENDENCE 100 

VISITATION 100 

IN  EXCELSIS .    .    .  101 

THE  VEILED  LADY 102 

THE  MESSENGER 102 

HENRY  GEORGE 103 


BENZAQUEN:  A  FRAGMENT 107 


ALONG    THE    TRAIL 
1883-1898 


THE  WORD  OF  THE  LORD  FROM  HAVANA 

THUS  spake  the  Lord: 
Because  ye  have  not  heard, 
Because  ye  have  given  no  heed 
To  my  people  in  their  need, 

Because  the  oppressed  cried 
From  the  dust  where  he  died, 
And  ye  turned  your  face  away 
From  his  cry  in  that  day, 

Because  ye  have  bought  and  sold 
That  which  is  above  gold, 
Because  your  brother  is  slain 
While  ye  get  you  drunk  with  gain, 

(Behold,  these  are  my  people,  I  have  brought  them  to 

birth, 

On  whom  the  mighty  have  trod, 
The  kings  of  the  earth, 
Saith  the  Lord  God  !) 

Because  ye  have  fawned  and  bowed  down 
Lest  the  spoiler  frown, 
And  the  wrongs  that  the  spoiled  have  borne 
Ye  have  held  in  scorn, 

Therefore  with  rending  and  flame 
I  have  marred  and  smitten  you, 
3 


" 

' 

I  ircr 


Therefore  I  have  given  you  to  shame, 
That  the  nations  shall  spit  on  you. 

Therefore  my  Angel  of  Death 
Hath  stretched  out  his  hand  on  you, 
Therefore  I  speak  in  my  wrath, 
Laying  command  on  you ; 

(Once  have  I  bared  my  sword, 

And  the  kings  of  the  earth  gave  a  cry; 

Twice  have  I  bared  my  sword, 

That  the  kings  of  the  earth  should  die ; 

Thrice  shall  I  bare  my  sword, 

And  ye  shall  know  my  name,  that  it  is  I !) 

Ye  who  held  peace  less  than  right 
When  a  king  laid  a  pitiful  tax  on  you, 
Hold  not  your  hand  from  the  fight 
When  freedom  cries  under  the  axe  on  you ! 

(I  who  called  France  to  you,  call  you  to  Cuba  in  turn  ! 
Repay  —  lest  I  cast  you  adrift  and  you  perish  astern !) 

Ye  who  made  war  that  your  ships 
Should  lay  to  at  the  beck  of  no  nation, 
Make  war  now  on  Mucder,  that  slips 
The  leash  of  her  hounds  of  damnation  ! 

Ye  who  remembered  the  Alamo, 
Remember  the  Maine  ! 

4 


Ye  who  unfettered  the  slave, 
Break  a  free  people's  chain  ! 

(Written    after  the  destruction  of  the  battleship  "Maine,1 
17  February,  1898) 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BUGLES 

BUGLES  ! 

And  the  Great  Nation  thrills  and  leaps  to  arms  1 

Prompt,  unconstrained,  immediate, 

Without  misgiving  and  without  debate, 

Too  calm,  too  strong  for  fury  or  alarms, 

The  people  blossoms  armies  and  puts  forth 

The  splendid  summer  of  its  noiseless  might; 

For  the  old  sap  of  fight 

Mounts  up  in  South  and  North, 

The  thrill 

That  tingled  in  our  veins  at  Bunker  Hill 

And  brought  to  bloom  July  of  'Seventy-Six ! 

Pine  and  palmetto  mix     T- 

With  the  sequoia  of  the  giant  West 

Their  ready  banners,  and  the  hosts  of  war, 

Near  and  far, 

Sudden  as  dawn, 

Innumerable  as  forests,  hear  the  call 

Of  the  bugles, 

The  battle-birds ! 

5 


For  not  alone  the  brave,  the  fortunate, 

Who  first  of  all 

Have  put  their  knapsacks  on  — 

They  are  the  valiant  vanguard  of  the  rest !  — 

Not  they  alone,  but  all  our  millions  wait, 

Hand  on  sword, 

For  the  word 

That  bids  them  bid  the  nations  know  us  sons  of  Fate. 

Bugles ! 

And  in  my  heart  a  cry, 

—  Like  a  dim  echo  far  and  mournfully 

Blown  back  to  answer  them  from  yesterday ! 

A  soldier's  burial ! 

November  hillsides  and  the  falling  leaves 

Where  the  Potomac  broadens  to  the  tide  — 

The  crisp  autumnal  silence  and  the  gray 

(As  of  a  solemn  ritual 

Whose  congregation  glories  as  it  grieves, 

Widowed  but  still  a  bride)  — 

The  long  hills  sloping  to  the  wave, 

And  the  lone  bugler  standing  by  the  grave ! 

Taps! 

The  lonely  call  over  the  lonely  woodlands  — 
Rising  like  the  soaring  of  wings, 
Like  the  flight  of  an  eagle  — 
Taps! 

They  sound  forever  in  my  heart. 
6 


From  farther  still, 

The  echoes  —  still  the  echoes  ! 

The  bugles  of  the  dead 

Blowing  from  spectral  ranks  an  answering  cry ! 

The  ghostly  roll  of  immaterial  drums, 

Beating  reveille  in  the  camps  of  dream, 

As  from  far  meadows  comes, 

Over  the  pathless  hill, 

The  irremeable  stream. 

I  hear  the  tread 

Of  the  great  armies  of  the  Past  go  by; 

I  hear, 

Across  the  wide  sea  wash  of  years  between, 

Concord  and  Valley  Forge  shout  back  from  the  unseen, 

And  Vicksburg  give  a  cheer. 

Our  cheer  goes  back  to  them,  the  valiant  dead ! 
Laurels  and  roses  on  their  graves  to-day, 
Lilies  and  laurels  over  them  we  lay, 
And  violets  o'er  each  unforgotten  head. 
Their  honor  still  with  the  returning  May 
Puts  on  its  springtime  in  our  memories, 
Nor  till  the  last  American  with  them  lies 
Shall  the  young  year  forget  to  strew  their  bed. 

Peace  to  their  ashes,  sleep  and  honored  rest ! 
But  we  —  awake  ! 

Ours  to  remember  them  with  deeds  like  theirs  ! 
7 


From  sea  to  sea  the  insistent  bugle  blares, 

The  drums  will  not  be  still  for  any  sake  ; 

And  as  an  eagle  rears  his  crest, 

Defiant,  from  some  tall  pine  of  the  north, 

And  spreads  his  wings  to  fly, 

The  banners  of  America  go  forth 

Against  the  clarion  sky. 

Veteran  and  volunteer, 

They  who  were  comrades  of  that  shadow  host, 

And  the  young  brood  whose  veins  renew  the  fires 

That  burned  in  their  great  sires, 

Alike  we  hear 

The  summons  sounding  clear 

From  coast  to  coast,  — 

The  cry  of  the  bugles, 

The  battle-birds  ! 

As  some  great  hero  men  have  dreamed  might  be,- 

Sigurd  or  Herakles  or  Launcelot, 

Too  strong  to  reckon  up  the  gain  or  pain, 

With  equal  and  indifferent  disdain 

Keeping  or  keeping  not 

What  he  may  win, 

Gives  to  the  world  his  victory 

And  to  the  weak  the  labors  he  might  spare, 

My  knightly  country,  the  world's  paladin, 

Throw  out  its  pennon  to  the  air 

To  make  a  people  free ! 

8. 


Rejoice,  O  Cuba !  thy  worst  foe 

Is  overthrown. 

The  money  dragon, 

The  Old  Serpent, 

Thy  jailer's  strong  defence,  laid  low, 

Cast  down, 

Pierced  to  the  bone, 

Makes  off  to  nurse  his  wound, 

Dragging  his  scaly  length  along  the  ground. 

Ha,  ha !  he  is  sick, 

He  hath  no  stomach  for  the  battle. 

With  dull  reptilian  malice  in  his  eyes, 

Spoiled  of  his  prey,  he  lies, 

Blinking  his  glutton  hatred  from  his  lair. 

Plotting  new  outrage  in  his  den, 

He  waits  to  be  strong  again. 
—  Let  him  beware  ! 

For  we,  who  have  smitten  him  once, 

Shall  smite  him  again  ! 

A  passing  wound  for  the  nonce, 

But  a  death  blow  then  ! 

Now  with  a  warning  stroke, 

That  he  coil  not  across  our  way 

When  the  wronged  cry  under  the  yoke 

And  we  may  not  stay ; 

But  then  in  the  hour  of  Doom 

To  his  irrevocable  tomb 

Forever  hurled, 

9 


That  the  world  may  again  have  room 
For  the  sons  of  the  world. 

Rejoice  again,  O  Cuba ! 

Rejoice,  Gomez  ! 

Rejoice,  spirit  of  Maceo  ! 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  in  the  drums, 

The  cry  of  Jehovah  in  the  bugles ; 

—  Let  my  people  go  free  ! 

Behold,  I  will  burst  their  chain ! 

For  my  Deliverer  comes, 

He  whom  I  have  chosen  to  be 

My  Messenger  on  the  Sea, 

My  Rod  for  the  scourge  of  Spain  ! 

I  have  endured  her  too  long; 

I  have  smitten  and  she  has  not  ceased  from  wrong, 

I  have  forborne 

And  she  has  held  me  in  scorn. 

Now  therefore  for  her  misdeeds 

Wherewith  Time  bleeds, 

I  who  smote  her  by  the  hand  of  Drake 

And  wrenched  from  her  the  Sea,  — 

I  who  raised  up  Bolivar  to  shake,* 

Her  captive  continent  free,  — 

I  will  smite  her  for  the  third  time  in  my  wrath 

And  naught  shall  remain, 

But  a  black  char  of  memory  in  man's  path, 

Of  the  power  of  Spain. 

10 


We  have  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord ; 
Manila  knows  our  answer,  and  Madrid 
Shall  hear  it  in  our  cannon  at  her  gate, 
Unless  to  save  some  remnant  of  her  fate, 
Ere  that  assault  be  bid, 
She  yield  her  conquered  sword. 

Let  her  not  put  her  trust 

In  the  nations  that  cry  out 

Against  us,  in  them  that  flout 

The  battle  of  the  just. 

They  have  made  themselves  drunk  with  wind ; 

They  have  uttered  a  foolish  cry 

In  the  ears  of  the  Lord  on  high  ; 

But  they  shall  not  save  her  with  words 

—  Nay,  nor  with  swords  — 

From  the  doom  of  the  sin  she  has  sinned. 

For  the  writ  of  the  Powers  does  not  run 
Where  the  flag  of  the  Union  floats. 
Fair  and  equal  every  one 
We  greet  with  loyal  throats  ; 
But  we  own  no  suzerain. 
The  wed  with  freedom,! 
Mailed  in  destiny  — 
We  shall  maintain 
Against  the  world  our  right, 
Their  peer  in  majesty,  their  peer  in  might. 
ii 


Who  now  are  they  whose  God  is  gain  ? 

Let  Rothschild-ridden  Europe  hold  her  peace  ! 

Her  jest  is  proved  a  lie. 

They  and  not  we  refrain 

From  all  things  high 

At  the  money-changers'  cry ; 

They  and  not  we  have  sold 

Their  flags  for  gold  ; 

They  and  not  we  yield  honor  to  increase. 

Honor  to  England,  that  she  does  us  right 

At  last,  and,  after  many  a  valiant  fight, 

Forgets  her  ancient  grudge  ! 

But  ye,  O  nations,  be  the  Lord  our  judge 

And  yours  the  shame  forever  !     How  shall  ye 

In  the  unforgetting  face  of  History 

Look  without  blush  hereafter  ?     Ye  who  gave 

To  the  Great  Robber  all  your  words  of  cheer, 

And  to  the  Champion  of  the  Right  a  sneer  — 

What  answer  will  ye  have 

When  affronted  Time  demands 

The  shame  and  fame  of  nations  at  your  hands  ? 

Thou  too,  O  France  ! 
Thou,  the  beloved  !  — 
Paul  Jones  and  Lafayette  in  Paradise 
Lift  not  their  sad,  ashamed,  bewildered  eyes, 
But  pass  in  silence  with  averted  glance. 
12 


Twinned  with  us  in  the  hearts  of  all  the  free, 

O  fair  and  dear,  what  have  we  done  to  thee  ? 

What  have  we  done  to  thee,  beloved  and  fair, 

That  thou  shouldst  greet  us  with  an  alien  stare, 

And  take  to  thy  embrace 

Her  whose  flag  never  flew  but  where  it  left  the  trace 

Of  murder  and  of  rapine  on  the  air? 

Not  only  to  lay  low 
The  decrepit  foe 

—  Proud,  cruel,  treacherous,  but  still  brave, 
(  With  one  foot  in  the  grave  — 

But  once  for  all 

To  warn  the  world  that,  though  we  do  not  brawl, 
Our  sword  is  ready  to  protect 
-The  weak  against  the  brutal  strong, 
Our  guns  are  ready  to  exact 
Justice  of  them  that  do  us  wrong. 

Ay,  we  "remember  the  Maine," 

The  mighty  ship 

And  the  men  thereon  ! 

There  is  no  court  for  nations  that  can  mete 

The  just  reward  for  murder  upon  Spain ; 

No  Arbiter  can  put  the  black  cap  on  ; 

No  sovereign  nation,  shorn  of  sovereignship, 

Be  brought,  a  felon,  to  the  judgment  seat 

—  Except  by  war  ! 

13 


Cease  then  this  silly  prate, 

That  to  do  justice  on  the  evil-doer 

Is  vengeful  and  unworthy  of  the  State. 

Remember  the  Maine  — 

That  all  the  world  as  well  as  Spain 

May  know  that  God  has  given  us  the  sword 

To  punish  crime  and  vindicate  his  word. 

Ye  pompous  prattlers,  cease 

Your  idle  platitudes  of  peace 

When  there  is  no  peace  ! 

Back  to  your  world  of  books,  and  leave  the  world  of 

men 

To  them  that  have  the  habit  of  the  real, 
Nor  longer  with  a  mask  of  fair  ideal 
Hide  your  indifference  to  the  facts  of  pain ! 

Not  against  war, 

But  against  wrong, 

League  we  in  mighty  bonds  from  sea  to  sea! 

Peace,  when  the  world  is  free ! 

Peace,  when  there  is  no  thong, 

Fetter  nor  bar  ! 

No  scourges  for  men's  backs, 

No  thumbscrews  and  no  racks  — 

For  body  or  soul ! 

No  unjust  law ! 

No  tyrannous  control 

Of  brawn  or  maw  ! 

14 


But,  though  the  day  be  far, 
Till  then,  war  ! 

Blow,  bugles ! 

Over  the  rumbling  drum  and  marching  feet 

Sound  your  high,  sweet  defiance  to  the  air  ! 

Great  is  war  —  great  and  fair  ! 

The  terrors  of  his  face  are  grand  and  sweet, 

And  to  the  wise  the  calm  of  God  is  there. 

God  clothes  himself  in  darkness  as  in  light, 

—  The  God  of  love,  but  still  the  God  of  might. 

Nor  love  they  least 

Who  strike  with  right  good  will 

To  vanquish  ill 

And  fight  God's  battle  upward  from  the  beast. 

By  strife  as  well  as  loving  —  strife, 

The  Law  of  Life,  — 

In  brute  and  man  the  climbing  has  been  done 

And  shall  be  done  hereafter.     Since  man  was, 

No  upward-climbing  cause 

Without  the  sword  has  ever  yet  been  won. 

Bugles ! 

The  imperious  bugles ! 

Still  their  call 

Soars  like  an  exaltation  to  the  sky. 

They  call  on  men  to  fall, 

To  die,  — 

'5 


Remembered  or  forgotten,  but  a  part 

Of  the  great  beating  of  the  Nation's  heart ! 

A  call  to  sacrifice ! 

A  call  to  victory  ! 

Hark,  in  the  Empyrean 

The  battle-birds  ! 

The  bugles ! 

( Waldron  Post,   G.  A.  /?.,   Nyack,  N.    K,   Memorial  Day 
1898) 

UNMANIFEST   DESTINY 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 

And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 
Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 

Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end, 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 

The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 
Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 

The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides ! 

The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 

Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 
To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 

To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run, 
What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame  ? 
16 


Who  saw  behind  the  cloud  the  sun  ? 
Who  knjw  that  God  was  in  the  flame? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned, 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds, 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 
Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate ; 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  great. 


July,  1898 


AMERICA 


WE  came  to  birth  in  battle ;  when  we  pass, 
It  shall  be  to  the  thunder  of  the  drums. 
\Ve  are  not  one  that  weeps  and  saith  Alas, 
Nor  one  that  dreams  of  dim  millenniums. 
Our  hand  is  set  to  this  world's  business, 
And  it  must  be  accomplished  workmanly ; 
Be  we  not  stout  enough  to  keep  our  place, 
What  profits  it  the  world  that  we  be  free  ? 

2  17 


Not  with  despite  for  others,  but  to  hold 
Our  station  in  the  world  inviolate, 
We  keep  the  stomach  of  the  men  of  old 
Who  built  in  blood  the  bastions  of  our  fate. 

We  know  not  to  what  goal  God's  purpose  tends; 

We  know  He  works  through  battle  to  His  ends. 

October,  1898 


18 


II 


DEAD 

AH  God  !  how  strange  the  rattling  in  the  street 
Comes  to  me  where  I  lie  and  the  hours  pass. 

I  watch  a  beetle  crawling  up  the  sheet 

That  covers  me,  and  curiously  note 

The  green  and  yellow  back  like  mouldy  brass, 

And  cannot  even  shudder  at  the  thought 

How  soon  the  loathsome  thing  will  reach  my  face. 

And  by  such  things  alone  I  measure  out 

The  slow  drip  of  the  minutes  from  Time's  eaves. 

For  if  I  think  of  when  I  lived,  I  doubt 

It  was  but  yesterdav  I  brushed  the  flowers ; 

But  when  I  think  of  what  I  am,  thought  leaves 

The  weak  mind  dirzy  in  a  waste  of  hours. 

O  God,  how  happy  is  the  man  that  grieves  ! 

Life  Pit  was  life  to  look  upon  her  face, 

And  it  was  life  to  rage  when  she  was  gone ; 

But  this  new  horror  ! —  In  the  market-place 

A  form,  in  all  things  like  me  as  I  moved 

Of  old,  is  marked  or  hailed  of  many  an  one 

That  takes  it  for  his  friend  that  lived  and  loved,  — 
And  I  laugh  voicelessly,  a  laugh  of  stone. 

For  here  I  lie  and  neither  move  nor  feel 

And  watch  that  Other  pacing  up  and  down 
The  room,  or  pausing  at  his  potter's  wheel 

21 


To  turn  out  cunning  vessels  from  the  clay, 
Vessels  that  he  will  hawk  about  the  town, 

And  then  return  to  work  another  day 

Frowning;  but  I,  —  I  neither  smile  nor  frown. 

I  see  him  take  his  coat  down  from  the  peg 
And  put  it  on,  and  open  the  white  door, 

And  brush  some  bit  of  cobweb  from  his  leg, 

And  look  about  the  room  before  he  goes  ; 

And  then  the  clock  goes  ticking  as  before, 

And  I  am  with  him  and  know  all  he  does, 

And  I  am  here  and  tell  each  clock-tick  o'er. 

And  men  are  praising  him  for  subtle  skill ; 

And  women  love  him  —  God  alone  knows  why  ! 
He  can  have  all  the  world  holds  at  his  will  — 
But  this,  to  be  a  living  soul,  and  this 

No  man  but  I  can  give  him ;  and  I  lie 
And  make  no  sign,  and  care  not  what  he  is, 

And  hardly  know  if  this  indeed  be  I. 

Ah,  if  she  came  and  bent  above  me  here, 

Who  lie  with  straight   bands   bound   about  my 
chin ! 

Ah,  if  she  came  and  stood  beside  this  bier 

With  aureoles  as  of  old  upon  her  hair 

To  light  the  darkness  of  this  burial  bin ! 

Should  I  not  rise  again  and  breathe  the  air 

And  feel  the  veins  warm  that  the  blood  beats  in  ? 


Or  should  I  lie  with  sinews  fixed  and  shriek 

As  dead  men  shriek  and  make  no  sound  ?  Should  I 

See  her  gray  eyes  look  love  and  hear  her  speak, 

And  be  all  impotent  to  burst  my  shroud  ? 

Will  the  dead  never  rise  from  where  they  lie  ? 

Or  will  they  never  cease  to  think  so  loud? 
Or  is  to  know  and  not  to  be,  to  die? 

,890  ' 

FORGIVEN 

"  DESPISE  me  if  you  will.     I  have  done  you  wrong,  — 

Most  grievous   wrong,  —  but   not   the   wrong  you 

think. 
You  deemed  me  strongest  where  I  was  not  strong, 

And  martyr  where  a  scratch  would  make  me  shrink. 
Nor,  false  for  truth's  sake  though  I  wrest  my  role, 

Am  I  one  half  so  false  as  I  am  true ; 
And  mine  own  truth  has  throttled  my  proud  soul 

And  cast  it  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  you. 
I  am  most  humble ;  but  my  heart  cries  out 

For  one  last  grace  from  you  before  we  part ; 
—  Though  it  give  pain,  to  hear  my  tale  throughout 

And  —  not  forgive  —  but  understand  my  heart. 
Therefore  I  bare  my  soul  to  you  and  tell 

The  utter  truth,  though  speaking  so  I  seem 
But  a  reiterate  anguish  to  compel, 

That  in  condemning  you  may  not  condemn 
23 


You  know  not  what,  but  me,  me,  me  !  "  —  The  whole 

I  told  then,  act  and  impulse  ;  I  kept  not 
Aught  back  that  might  reveal  me  to  her  soul: 
And  she  forgave,  —  but  understood  no  jot 
1893 

LOVE   AND   CHANGE 

One  Lover 

FOREVER  ?  Ah,  too  vain  to  hope,  my  sweet, 
That  love  should  linger  when  all  else  must  die ! 
No  prayer  can  stay  his  wings,  if  he  will  fly, 
Nor  longing  lure  him  back  to  find  our  feet, 

Weeping  for  old  disloyalties.     The  heat 
That  glows  in  the  uplifting  of  thine  eye, 
Dims  and  grows  cold  ere  yet  the  day  pass  by ; 
Nor  ever  will  the  dusk  of  love  repeat 

The  dawn's  pearl-rapture.     Ay,  it  is  the  doom 
Of  love  that  it  must  watch  its  own  decay. 
Petal  by  petal  from  the  voluptuous  bloom 

Drops  withering,  till  the  last  is  blown  away. 

The  night  mists  rise  and  shroud  the  bier  of  day, 
And  we  are  left  lamenting  in  the  gloom. 

Another  Lover 

"  Love  is  eternal,"  sang  I  long  ago 

Of  some  light  love  that  lasted  for  a  day ; 

But  when  that  whim  of  hearts  was  puffed  away, 

And  other  loves  that  following  made  as  though 

24 


They  were  the  very  deathless,  lost  the  glow 
Youth  mimics  the  divine  with,  and  grew  gray, 
I  said,  "  It  is  a  dream,  —  no  love  will  stay." 
Angels  have  taught  me  wisdom  ;  now  I  know, 

Though  lesser  loves,  and  greater  loves,  may  cease, 
Love  still  endures,  knocking  at  myriad  gates 
Of  beauty,  —  dawns  and  call  of  woodland  birds. 

Stars,  winds,  and  waters,  lilt  of  luted  words 

And  worshipped  women,  —  till  it  finds  its  peace 
In  the  abyss  where  Godhead  loves  and  waits. 

A  Third  Lover 

My  love  for  you  dies  many  times  a  year, 
And  a  new  love  is  monarch  in  his  place. 
Love  must  grow  weary  of  the  fairest  face ', 
The  fondest  heart  must  fail  to  hold  him  neat. 

For  love  is  born  of  wonder,  kin  to  fear  — 
Things  grown  familiar  lose  the  sweet  amaze ; 
Grown  to  their  measure,  love  must  turn  his  gaz6 
To  some  new  splendor,  some  diviner  sphere. 

But  in  the  blue  night  of  your  endless  soul 
New  stars  globe  ever  as  the  old  are  scanned  ; 
Goal  where  love  will,  you  reach  a  farther  goal, 

And  the  new  love  is  ever  love  of  you. 

Love  needs  a  thousand  loves,  forever  new, 
And  finds  them  —  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand. 

1897 

25 


LAUNCELOT   AND   GAWAINE 

Two  women  loved  a  poet.     One  was  dark, 

Luxuriant  with  the  beauty  of  the  south, 

A  heart  of  fire  —  and  this  one  he  forsook. 

The  other  slender,  tall,  with  wide  gray  eyes, 

Who  loved  him  with  a  still  intensity 

That  made  her  heart  a  shrine  —  to  her  he  clave, 

And  he  was  faithful  to  her  to  the  end. 

And  when  the  poet  died,  a  song  was  found 

Which  he  had  writ,  of  Launcelot  and  Gawaine ; 

And  when  the  women  read  it,  one  cried  out : 

"  Where  got  he  Launcelot  ?     Gawaine  I  know  — 

He  drew  that  picture  from  a  looking-glass  — 

Sleek,  lying,  treacherous,  golden-tongued  Gawaine  !  " 

The  other,  smiling,  murmured  "  Launcelot !  " 

1888 


MY   LADY'S    SOUL 

LIKE  some  enchanted  dweller  in  the  deep, 
I  swim  among  the  grottoes  of  your  soul. 
Far,  far  away  the  cliffs  rise  rough  and  steep ; 
Far,  far  above  the  ruffling  billows  roll. 
Here  a  new  world,  unseen  of  any  eye 
But  mine,  unfolds  its  unfamiliar  blooms 
In  opal  calms  unuttered  to  the  sky 
And  tremulous  light  of  phosphorescent  glooms. 
26 


And  if  my  soul  revisit  the  raw  day, 
For  joy  of  all  that  secret  beauty  blind, 
I,  merman-like,  have  little  care  to  stay 
In  the  thin  air,  but  plunge  again  to  find 
Those  deeps  unvisited  from  which  I  came, 
Whose  simplest  wonders  have  not  yet  a  name. 
1895 


AFTER  BUSINESS  HOURS 

WHEN  I  sit  down  with  thee  at  last  alone, 
Shut  out  the  wrangle  of  the  clashing  day, 
The  scrape  of  petty  jars  that  fret  and  fray, 
The  snarl  and  yelp  of  brute  beasts  for  a  bone ; 

When  thou  and  I  sit  down  at  last  alone, 

And  through  the  dusk  of  rooms  divinely  gray 

Spirit  to  spirit  finds  its  voiceless  way, 

As  tone  melts  meeting  in  accordant  tone,  — 

Oh,  then  our  souls,  far  in  the  vast  of  sky, 

Look  from  a  tower,  too  high  for  sound  of  strife 
Or  any  violation  of  the  town, 

Where  the  great  vacant  winds  of  God  go  by, 
And  over  the  huge  misshapen  city  of  life 
Love  pours  his  silence  and  his  moonlight  down. 

1898 


27 


THE  THOUGHT  OF  HER 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  take  me  unaware, 

When  most  with  lesser  things  my  brain  is  wrought, 
As  in  some  nimble  interchange  of  thought 
The  silence  enters,  and  the  talkers  stare. 

Suddenly  I  am  still  and  thou  art  there, 
A  viewless  visitant  and  unbesought, 
And  all  my  thinking  trembles  into  nought 
And  all  my  being  opens  like  a  prayer. 

Thou  art  the  lifted  Chalice  in  my  soul, 

And  I  a  dim  church  at  the  thought  of  thee ; 
Brief  be  the  moment,  but  the  mass  is  said, 

The  benediction  like  an  aureole 

Is  on  my  spirit,  and  shuddering  through  me 
A  rapture  like  the  rapture  of  the  dead. 


LOVE  IN  THE  WINDS 

WHEN  I  am  standing  on  a  mountain  crest, 
Or  hold  the  tiller  in  the  dashing  spray, 
My  love  of  you  leaps  foaming  in  my  breast, 
Shouts  with  the  winds  and  sweeps  to  their  foray ; 
My  heart  bounds  with  the  horses  of  the  sea, 
And  plunges  in  the  wild  ride  of  the  night, 
Flaunts  in  the  teeth  of  tempest  the  large  glee 
That  rides  out  Fate  and  welcomes  gods  to  fight. 
Ho,  love,  I  laugh  aloud  for  love  of  you, 
28 


Glad  that  our  love  is  fellow  to  rough  weather,  — 
No  fretful  orchid  hothoused  from  the  dew, 
But  hale  and  hardy  as  the  highland  heather, 

Rejoicing  in  the  wind  that  stings  and  thrills, 
Comrade  of  ocean,  playmate  of  the  hills. 


TWO  AND  FATE 

THE  ship  we  ride  the  world  in  sniffs  the  storm, 
And  throws  its  head  up  to  the  hurricane, 
Quivering  like  a  war-horse  when  ranks  form 
With  scream  of  bugles  and  the  shout  of  men, 
Neighs  to  the  challenge  of  the  thunderbolt, 
And  charges  in  the  squadrons  of  the  surge, 
Sabring  its  way  with  fury  of  revolt 
And  lashed  with  exaltation  as  a  scourge ! 
Who  would  not  rather  founder  in  the  fight 
Than  not  have  known  the  glory  of  the  fray  ? 
Ay,  to  go  down  in  armor  and  in  might, 
With  our  last  breath  to  dominate  dismay, 

To  sink  amid  the  mad  sea's  clashing  spears 
And  with  the  cry  of  bugles  in  our  ears ! 


FAITH  AND  FATE 

To  horse,  my  dear,  and  out  into  the  night ! 
Stirrup  and  saddle  and  away,  away  ! 
Into  the  darkness,  into  the  affright, 
29 


Into  the  unknown  on  our  trackless  way! 

Past  bridge  and  town  missiled  with  flying  feet, 

Into  the  wilderness  our  riding  thrills  ; 

The  gallop  echoes  through  the  startled  street, 

And  shrieks  like  laughter  in  the  demoned  hills ; 

Things  come  to  meet  us  with  fantastic  frown, 

And  hurry  past  with  maniac  despair; 

Death  from  the  stars  looks  ominously  down  — 

Ho,  ho,  the  dauntless  riding  that  we  dare ! 

East,  to  the  dawn,  or  west  or  south  or  north  ! 

Loose  rein  upon  the  neck  of  Fate  —  and  forth ! 


CHANSONS  DE  ROSEMONDE 


THE  dawn  is  lonely  for  the  sun, 

And  chill  and  drear ; 
The  one  lone  star  is  pale  and  wan 

As  one  in  fear. 
B'ut  when  day  strides  across  the  hills, 

The  warm  blood  rushes  through 

The  bared  soft  bosom  of  the  blue 
And  all  the  glad  east  thrills. 

Oh,  come,  my  King !     The  hounds  of  joy 
Are  waiting  for  thy  horn 
30 


To  chase  the  doe  of  heart's  desire 
Across  the  heights  of  morn. 

Oh,  come,  my  Sun,  and  let  me  know 
The  rapture  of  the  day ! 

Oh,  come,  my  love  !  Oh,  come,  my  love ! 
Thou  art  so  long  away  ! 


II 

Love,  hold  me  close  to  thee  — 

And  kiss  me  —  so  — 
Dear  1  ...  The  green  leaves  above 

Blur  in  the  blue  ; 
The  ground  reels  like  a  sea  !  .  .  . 

I  know,  I  know 
There  is  but  now  for  love 

Between  us  two. 


Death  like  a  wizard  holds 

Me  with  his  eye  ; 
I  cannot  strive  nor  start, 

To  break  the  spell !  .  . 
Night  smothers  in  her  folds 

My  passing  cry !  .  .  . 
But  hold  me  to  thy  heart 

And  all  is  well. 


Ah,  what  if  heaven  should  be 

A  dream  like  this, 
—  Too  glad  to  move, 

Too  still  to  laugh  or  weep, 
So  thou  stand  over  me, 

Bend  down  and  kiss 
My  lips  once  — love  — 

And  let  me  fall  asleep ! 

1894 


A   WANDERER 

(Reminiscence  of  an  old  Scotch  song) 

EAST  and  west  and  north  and  south 
I  range  o'er  land  and  sea ; 
And  I  bear  dead  kisses  on  my  mouth, 
And  dead  love  wearies  me. 

I  am  caught  up  as  a  feather 

That  the  winds  toss  to  and  fro. 

Since  we  dwell  not  together, 

What  care  I  where  I  go  ? 

North  and  south  and  east  and  west 
I  drift  on  alien  tides ; 
The  one  place  where  I  may  not  rest 
Is  that  where  she  abides. 

32 


So  on  through  wind  and  weather ! 
Afar  o'er  land  and  sea  ! 
If  we  be  not  together 
What  matter  where  we  be  ? 

[890 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  BOY  — YESTERDAY 

No  lips  nor  lutes  can  let  thee  know 
The  joy  that  lightens  through  my  woe,  — 
But  look  in  thine  own  heart,  and  so 
I  shall  not  need  to  tell  thee,  love. 

Lady  of  the  winsome  smile  ! 

Lovesome  lady  !     Gentle  lady ! 

If  my  heart  had  any  guile, 

Thou  wouldst  make  me  truthful,  love. 

Though  bitter  be  our  luckless  lot, 
It  were  more  sad  if  love  were  not  — 
And  all  the  rest  may  be  forgot, 
But  thou  wilt  not  forget  me,  love  — 

Lady  of  the  faithful  heart ! 

Loving  lady  !     Loyal  lady ! 

Were  I  noble  as  thou  art, 

No  king's  sword  need  knight  me,  love. 

Were  I  myself  a  mighty  king 
With  thousands  at  my  beckoning, 
3  33 


My  power  were  but  a  little  thing 
To  do  thee  worthy  honor,  love. 

Lady  in  whose  life  I  live ! 

Fearless  lady  !     Peerless  lady  ! 

If  the  stars  were  mine  to  give 

They  should  be  thy  necklace,  love. 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  BOY  — TO-DAY 

HEIGH-HO  !  my  thoughts  are  far  away; 

For  wine  or  books  I  have  no  care ; 

I  like  to  think  upon  the  way 

She  has  of  looking  very  fair. 

Oh,  work  is  nought,  and  play  is  nought, 
And  all  the  livelong  day  is  nought ; 
There  's  nothing  much  I  care  to  learn 
But  what  her  lovely  lips  have  taught. 

The  campus  cannot  tempt  me  out, 

The  classics  cannot  keep  me  in ; 

The  only  place  I  care  about 

Is  where  perchance  she  may  have  been. 

Oh,  work  is  nought,  and  play  is  nought, 
And  all  the  livelong  day  is  nought ; 
There  's  nothing  much  I  care  to  find 
Except  the  way  she  would  be  sought. 
34 


The  train  across  the  valley  screams, 
And  like  a  hawk  sweeps  out  of  sight; 
It  bears  me  to  her  in  my  dreams 
By  day  and  night,  by  day  and  night. 

Oh,  work  is  nought,  and  play  is  nought, 

And  all  the  livelong  day  is  nought; 

There  's  nothing  much  I  care  to  be, 

If  I  be  only  in  her  thought. 
1897 

AN  OFF-SHORE  VILLANELLE 

OVER  the  dun  depths  where  the  white  shark  swims, 
Waiting  his  fated  prey  with  hungry  eyes, 
Swiftly  the  light  skiff  skims. 

The  laughing  skipper  trims 

Seaward  his  course.     What  recks  he  that  it  lies 

Over  the  dun  depths  where  the  white  shark  swims  ? 

He  shouts  for  glee  in  the  mad  wind's  teeth.     Fast  dims 
The  land  to  a  low  long  cloud-line  in  the  skies. 
Swiftly  the  light  skiff  skims, 

Brushing  the  foaming  brims 

Of  the  wave-beakers  as  in  mirth  it  flies 

Over  the  dun  depths  where  the  white  shark  swims. 

What  brings  the  white  girl  there,  about  whose  limbs 
The  wet  skirts  cling,  as  stormward,  petrel-wise, 
Swiftly  the  light  skiff  skims? 
35 


The  strong  sea-devils  wreak  their  cruel  whims 
In  vain.     Who  heeds  the  hatred  of  their  cries  ? 
Swiftly  the  light  skiff  skims 
Over  the  dun  depths  where  the  white  shark  swims. 

1888 

TO  LESBIA 

(Front  the  Latin  of  Catullus) 

LIVE  we,  Lesbia,  and  love  ! 
What  though  the  greybeards  disapprove ! 
Let  them  wag  their  toothless  jaws  ! 
Who  cares  a  copper  for  their  saws  ? 

Suns  may  set  and  suns  may  rise, 
But  when  the  light  of  life  once  dies, 
Night  that  knows  not  any  dawn 
Brings  eternal  slumber  on. 

Kisses,  kisses,  I  implore  — 

A  hundred  more  !  a  thousand  more  ! 

Another  thousand  —  ah,  too  fleet !  — 

A  hundred  !  —  thousand  !  —  hundred,  sweet ! 

Let  the  thousands  throng  and  cumber  ! 
Crush  them,  crowd  them  past  all  number, 
Lest  some  enchanter  blight  our  blisses, 
Knowing  the  number  of  our  kisses. 

1888 

36 


NOCTURNE 

WHITE,  white  I  remember  her  — 
White  from  her  forehead  to  her  feet. 

The  moonlight  falling  through  the  pane 
Was  not  so  white,  was  not  so  sweet- 

She  was  a  pool  of  moonlight  there 
Between  the  window  and  the  wall, 

And  the  slow  minutes  bathed  in  her 
And  went  away  beyond  recall. 


THE   TWO   LOVERS 

THE  lover  of  her  body  said : 

"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  night,  — 
But  like  the  kisses  of  the  dead 

Is  my  despair,  and  my  delight.*' 

The  lover  of  her  soul  replied : 

"  She  is  more  wonderful  than  death,— 
But  bitter  as  the  aching  tide 

Is  all  the  speech  of  love  she  saith." 

The  lover  of  her  body  said : 
"  To  know  one  secret  of  her  heart, 

For  all  the  joy  that  I  have  had, 
Is  past  the  reach  of  all  my  art." 
37 


The  lover  of  her  soul  replied: 

"  The  secrets  of  her  heart  are  mine,  — 

Save  how  she  lives,  a  riven  bride, 
Between  the  dust  and  the  divine." 

The  lover  of  her  body  sware : 

"  Though  she  should  hate  me,  wit  you  well, 
Rather  than  yield  one  kiss  of  her 

I  give  my  soul  to  burn  in  hell." 

The  lover  of  her  soul  cried  out : 

"  Rather  than  leave  her  to  your  greed, 

I  would  that  I  were  walled  about 
With  death,  —  and  death  were  death  indeed  !  " 

The  lover  of  her  body  wept, 

And  got  no  good  of  all  his  gain, 
Knowing  that  in  her  heart  she  kept 

The  penance  of  the  other's  pain. 

The  lover  of  her  soul  went  mad, 

But  when  he  did  himself  to  death, 
Despite  of  all  the  woe  he  had, 

He  smiled  as  one  who  vanquisheth. 


APPARITION 

(From  the  French  of  Mallarme} 

THE  moon  grew  sad  in  heaven.    In  tears  the  seraphim, 
A-dream  with  bow  in  fingers,  in  the  calm  of  dim 
38 


Mists  of  unbodied  flowers,  from  dying  viols  drew 
The  glide  of  white  sobs  over  the  corollas  blue 
—  It  was  the  day  thy  first  kiss  hallowed  and  made  dumb. 
My  musing  that  delights  to  bring  me  martyrdom, 
Grew  wisely  drunken  with  that  sad  scent  of  things  reft 
That,  though  without  regret  or  aftertaste,  is  left, 
Culling  a  dream,  in  him  whose  heart  has  culled  the 

dream. 

So  strayed  I  on,  with  eyes  on  the  worn  walk  a-gleam, 
Where  in  the  street  and  in  the  evening,  out  o'  the  air 
Thou  cam'st  to  me,  all  laughters,  sunlight  in  thy  hair. 
And  I  believed  I  saw  the  fay  with  hat  of  gold 
Who  o'er  spoiled  childhood's  slumber  beautiful,  of  old 
Passed,  letting  ever  from  her  loosely  closing  hands 
White  clusters  snow  of  stars,  with  odors  of  far  lands. 
1895 

SUMMER   SADNESS 

(From  the  French  of  Mallarme} 

THE  sunlight  on  the  sands,  fair  struggler  fallen  asleep, 
Makes  warm  a  bath  of  languors  in  your  golden  hair, 

And,  burning  away  the  angry  incense  that  you  weep, 
Mingles  a  wanton  drink  of  longings  in  the  air. 

Immutable  in  calm,  the  white  flamboyant  day 

Has  made  you  sigh  (alas,  my  kisses  full  of  qualms !) 

"  No,  we  shall  never  be  one  mummy,  swathed  for  aye 
Under  the  ancient  desert  and  the  happy  palms." 
39 


This  incubus  of  soul  we  suffer,  in  the  river 

Of  your  warm  hair  might  plunge  and  drown  without  a 

shiver, 

And  find  that  Nothingness  that  you  know  nothing  of. 
And  I  would  taste   those  tears  of  rouge  beneath 

your  eyes, 

To  see  if  they  can  give  the  heart  you  smote  with  love 
The  insensibility  of  stones  and  summer  skies. 

i895 

SONNET 

(From  the  French  of  Mallarme) 

SPRUNG  from  the  vase's  bulge  and  leap 

Of  fragile  glass,  the  neck  in  gloom 

Fades  out  nor  decks  with  any  bloom 
The  bitter  vigil  that  I  keep. 

Oh,  I  am  sure  that  no  lips  e'er 

(Nay  not  her  lover's  nor  my  mother's) 
Have  drunk  the  same  dream  as  another's, 

I,  —  sylph  of  the  cold  ceiling  there  ! 

The  virgin  chalice  of  no  wine 

But  an  exhaustless  widowhood,  — 

It  suffers,  but  is  not  subdued 
(Oh,  kiss  naive  and  saturnine  !) 

To  breathe  forth  aught  that  might  disclose 

Within  the  shadows  any  rose. 

1895 

40 


SONNET 

(Prom  the  French  of  Ma  liar  me) 

BALMY  with  years,  what  silken  ply, 
Whereo'er  the  fancy  pines  and  pales, 
Is  worth  the  tangled  native  veils 

That  in  your  mirror  I  descry  ? 

Uplifted  in  the  avenue, 

The  tattered  banners  droop  and  dream ; 

For  me  your  naked  tresses  stream, 
To  drown  my  eyes  in,  glad  of  you. 

No,  never  will  the  lips  be  sure 
Of  any  taste  in  aught  they  take 
Unless  your  princely  lover  make, 

Amid  that  clustered  cynosure, 
Die,  as  a  diamond  might  die, 
The  Glories  and  their  smothered  cry. 

1895 

HERODIAS 

(Prom  the  French  of  Mallarme) 

HERODIAS 

AY,  for  myself,  myself  I  flower  forlorn ! 
You  amethystine  gardens  buried  deep 
In  wise  abysses  dim  and  bottomless, 
You  understand  ;  and  you,  neglected  gold, 
41 


Keeping  your  ancient  glory  unprofaned 

Under  the  dark  sleep  of  primeval  earth ; 

You,  stones  wherefrom  mine  eyes,  like  limpid  gems, 

Borrow  their  blaze  melodious ;  and  you, 

Metals  that  give  the  tresses  of  my  youth 

A  deadly  splendor  in  their  massive  fall ! 

As  for  thee,  woman  born  in  centuries 

Malign  for  the  iniquities  that  lurk 

In  caverns  Sibylline,  —  thou  who  darest  to  speak 

Of  one  for  whom,  a  mortal,  shall  from  the  cup 

Of  my  slipped  robes,  aroma  savage-sweet, 

Rise  the  white  shudder  of  my  nakedness,  — 

Foretell  that  if  the  warm  blue  summer  sky 

That  woman  natively  unveils  before, 

See  me  in  my  star-shivering  shamefastness, 

I  die! 

The  horror  of  virginity 
Delights  me  ;  I  would  live,  amid  the  fright 
The  touch  of  mine  own  hair  can  make  me  know, 
To  feel,  at  eve,  within  my  couch  withdrawn, 
Inviolate  reptile,  in  the  useless  flesh 
Cold  scintillation  of  thy  pallid  light, 
Thou  dying,  thou  consumed  with  chastity, 
White  night  of  icicles  and  cruel  snow ! 

And  thy  lone  sister,  O  my  sister  aye, 
My  dream  shall  rise  to  thee  ;  even  now  so  clear, 
42 


So  wondrous  clear  the  heart  that  dreamed  it  so, 

I  seem  alone  in  my  lone  native  land, 

With  all  about  me  in  idolatry, 

Before  a  glass  whose  sleeping  calm  reflects 

Herodias,  with  clear  look  of  diamond  .  .  . 

Oh,  last  charm  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  feel  it,  I  am  alone. 

NURSE 

You  will  die,  lady  ? 

HERODIAS 

No,  good  grandam,  no. 

Be  calm  and  leave  me  ;  pardon  this  hard  heart. 
First  close  the  shutters,  if  you  will.     The  sky 
Smiles  like  a  seraph  in  the  pane's  profound, 
And  I  detest  the  beautiful  sky. 

The  waves 

Cradle  themselves,  and,  yonder,  know  you  not 
A  country  where  the  inauspicious  heaven 
Shows  Venus'  hated  aspects,  who  to-night 
Burns  in  the  leafage  ?  Thither  will  I  go. 
Light  again  — call  it  child's  play  if  you  will  — 
Those  tapers  where  the  wax  at  the  light  flame 
Weeps  in  the  idle  gold  an  alien  tear, 
And.  .  .  . 

NURSE 
Now? 

HERODIAS 

Farewell.  \_Exit  Nurse. 

43 


You  lie,  O  naked  flower 
Of  my  lips ! 

I  await  a  thing  unknown  ! 

Heedless,  perhaps,  of  the  mystery  and  your  cries, 
Though  you  fling  out  the  supreme  murdered  sobs 
Of  maidenhood  that  feels  amid  its  dreams 
Its  chill  gems  part  at  last. 

1894 


44 


Ill 


45 


COMRADES 

(Read  at  the  Sixtieth   Annual  Convention    of  the  Psi  Ufsilon 
Fraternity  at  Dartmouth  College,  Hanover  ^N.  H.,  May  18,  1893) 

AGAIN  among  the  hills ! 

The  shaggy  hills  ! 

The  clear  arousing  air  comes  like  a  call 

Of  bugle  notes  across  the  pines,  and  thrills 

My  heart  a£  if  a  hero  had  just  spoken. 

Again  among  the  hills  ! 

The  jubilant  unbroken 

Long  dreaming  of  the  hills  ! 

Far  off,  Ascutney  smiles  as  one  at  peace; 

And  over  all 

The  golden  sunlight  pours  and  fills 

The  hollow  of  the  earth,  like  a  God's  joy. 

Again  among  the  hills  ! 

The  tranquil  hills 

That  took  me  as  a  boy 

And  filled  my  spirit  with  the  silences  ! 

O  indolent,  far-reaching  hills,  that  lie 
Secure  in  your  own  strength,  and  take  your  ease 
Like  careless  giants  'neath  the  summer  sky  — 
What  is  it  to  you,  O  hills, 

That  anxious  men  should  take  thought  for  the  morrow  ? 
What  has  your  might  to  do  with  thought  or  sorrow 
Or  cark  and  cumber  of  conflicting  wills  ? 
47 


Lone  Pine,  that  thron'st  thyself  upon  the  height, 

Aloof  and  kingly,  overlooking  all, 

Yet  uncompanioned,  with  the  Day  and  Night 

For  pageant  and  the  winds  for  festival ! 

I  was  thy  minion  once,  and  now  renew 

Mine  ancient  fealty  — 

To  that  which  shaped  me  still  remaining  true, 

And  through  allegiance  only  growing  free. 

So  with  no  foreign  nor  oblivious  heart, 
Dartmouth,  I  seek  once  more  thy  granite  seat ; 
Nor  only  of  thy  hills  I  feel  me  part, 
But  each  encounter  of  the  village  street, 
The  ball-players  on  the  campus,  and  their  shouting, 
The  runners  lithe  and  fleet, 
The  noisy  groups  of  idlers,  and  the  songs, 
The  laughter  and  the  flouting  — 
Spectacled  comic  unrelated  beings 
With  book  in  hand, 

Who  'mid  all  stir  of  life,  all  whirl  of  rhythms, 
All  strivings,  lovings,  kissings,  dreamings,  seeings, 
Still  live  apart  in  some  strange  land 
Of  aorists  and  ohms  and  logarithms  — 
All  these  are  mine ;  I  greet  them  with  a  shout. 
Whether  they  will  or  no,  they  greet  me  too. 
Grave  teachers  and  the  students'  jocund  rout, 
Class-room  and  tennis  court,  alike  they  knew 
My  step  once,  and  they  cannot  shut  me  out. 
48 


But  dearer  than  the  silence  of  the  hills, 

And  greater  than  the  wisdom  of  the  years, 

Is  man  to  man,  indifferent  of  ills, 

Triumphant  over  fears, 

To  meet  the  world  with  loyal  hearts  that  need 

No  witness  of  their  friendship  but  the  deed. 

Such  comrades  they,  the  gallant  Musketeers, 

Wrought  by  the  master-workman  of  Romance, 

Who  foiled  the  crafty  Cardinal  and  saved 

A  Queen,  for  episode,  —  who  braved 

The  utmost  malice  of  mischance, 

The  utmost  enmity  of  human  foes, 

But  still  rode  on  across  the  fields  of  France, 

Reckless  of  knocks  and  blows, 

Careless  of  sins  or  woes, 

Incurious  of  each  other's  hearts,  but  sure 

That  each  for  each  would  vanquish  or  endure. 

Praise  be  to  you,  O  hills,  that  you  can  breathe 
Into  our  souls  the  secret  of  your  power  ! 
He  is  no  child  of  yours,  he  never  knew 
Your  spirit  —  were  he  born  beneath 
Your  highest  crags  —  who  bears  not  every  hour 
The  might,  the  calm  of  you 
About  him,  that  sublime 
Unconsciousness  of  all  things  great,  — 
Built  on  himself  to  stand  the  shocks  of  Time 
And  scarred  not  shaken  by  the  bolts  of  Fate. 
4  49 


And  praise  to  thee,  my  college,  that  the  lore 

Of  ages  may  be  pondered  at  thy  feet ! 

That  for  thy  sons  each  sage  and  seer  of  yore 

His  runes  may  still  repeat ! 

Praise  that  thou  givest  to  us  understanding 

To  wring  from  the  world's  heart 

New  answers  to  new  doubts  —  to  make  the  landing 

On  shores  that  have  no  chart ! 

Praise  for  the  glory  of  knowing, 

And  greater  glory  of  the  power  to  know ! 

Praise  for  the  faith  that  doubts  would  overthrow, 

And  which  through  doubts  to  larger  faith  is  growing ! 

The  sons  of  science  are  a  wrangling  throng, 

Yet  through  their  labor  what  the  sons  of  song 

Have  wrought  in  clay,  at  last 

In  the  bronze  is  cast, 

And  wind  and  rain  no  more  can  work  it  wrong. 


But  more  than  strength  and  more  than  truth 
Oh  praise  the  love  of  man  and  man  ! 
Praise  it  for  pledge  of  our  eternal  youth  ! 
Praise  it  for  pulse  of  that  great  gush  that  ran 
Through  all  the  worlds,  when  He 
Who  made  them  clapped  his  hands  for  glee, 
And  laughed  Love  down  the  cycles  of  the  stars. 
Praise  all  that  plants  it  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
All  that  protects  it  from  the  hoof  that  mars, 
50 


The  weed  that  stifles ;  praise  the  rain 
That  rains  upon  it  and  the  sun  that  shines, 
Till  it  stretch  skyward  with  its  laden  vines ! 

$• 

Praise,  then,  for  thee,  Psi  Upsilon ! 

And  never  shame  if  it  be  said 

Thou  carest  little  for  the  head, 

All  for  the  heart ;  for  this  is  thy  desire. 

Not  for  the  social  grace  thou  mayst  impart, 

Not  for  the  love  of  letters  or  of  art, 

Albeit  thou  lovest  them,  burns  thy  sacred  fire. 

Not  to  add  one  more  whip  to  those  that  drive 

Men  onward  in  the  struggle  to  survive, 

Not  to  spur  weary  brain  and  tired  eyes  on 

To  toil  for  prizes,  not,  Psi  Upsilon, 

To  be  an  annex  to  collegiate  chairs 

Or  make  their  lapses  good  ! 

Make  thou  no  claim  of  use 

For  poor  excuse 

Why  thou  shouldst  climb  thy  holier  stairs 

Toward  ends  by  plodders  dimly  understood. 

No,  for  the  love  of  comrades  only,  thou ! 

The  college  is  the  head  and  thou  the  heart. 

Keep  thou  thy  nobler  part, 

And  wear  the  Bacchic  ivy  on  thy  brow. 

-r- 

Comrades^  pour  the  ivine  to-night, 
For  the  parting  is  with  dawn. 
5' 


Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together, 
With  the  daylight  coming  on  ' 
Greet  the  morn 
With  a  double  horn, 
When  strong  men  drink  together! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 

For  the  battle  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 
With  the  triumph  coming  on  ! 
Greet  the  foe 
And  lay  him  low, 
When  strong  men  fight  together. 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night. 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together, 
With  the  tempest  coming  on  / 
Greet  the  Sea 
With  a  shout  of  glee, 
When  strong  men  roam  together. 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 

For  the  dying  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 
Whh  the  silence  coming  on  / 
Greet  the  end 
As  a  friend  a  friend, 
When  strong  men  die  together. 
52 


—  Hark,  afar 

The  rising  of  the  wind  among  the  pines, 
The  runic  wind,  full  of  old  legendries  ! 
It  talks  to  the  ancient  trees 
Of  sights  and  signs 

And  strange  earth-creatures  strong  to  make  or  mar,  — 
Such  tales  as  when  the  firelight  flickered  out 
In  the  old  days  men  heard  and  had  no  doubt. 

0  wind,  what  is  your  spell  ? 

Borne  on  your  cry,  the  ages  slip  away, 
And  lo,  I  too  am  of  that  elder  day; 

1  crouch  by  the  logs  and  hear 
With  credent  ear 

And  simple  marvel  the  far  tales  men  tell. 

There  came  three  women  to  a  youth,  and  one 
Was  brown  and  old,  and  like  the  bark  of  trees 
Her  wrinkled  skin  was  rough  to  look  upon ; 
And  one  was  tall  and  stately,  and  her  brow 
Broad  with  large  thought  and  many  masteries, 
Yet  bent  a  little  as  who  saith  "  I  trow ;  " 
The  third  was  like  a  breath  of  morning  blown 
Across  the  hills  in  May,  so  blithe,  so  fair, 
With  brave  blue  eyes,  and  on  her  yellow  hair 
A  glory  by  the  yellow  sunlight  thrown. 

And  the  youth's  heart  flamed  as  a  crackling  fire, 
For  his  eyes  were  full  of  his  hearfs  desire. 
53 


And  the  old  crone  said  to  him,  "  Come, 

For  I  will  give  thee  Power." 

And  the  tall  dame  said  to  him,  "  Come, 

I  will  give  thee  Wisdom  and  Craft." 

And  the  maid  of  the  morning  said  to  him,  "  Come, 

And  I  will  give  thee  Love." 

And  the  youth  was  still  as  a  burnt-out  fire , 
For  he  knew  not  which  was  his  heart's  desire. 

Then  spake  the  maid  again ; 

"  Oh,  folly  of  men  ! 

What  thing  is  this  whereat  he  starts  and  muses? 

Not  twice  the  Dames  of  Birth 

Bring  gifts  for  mirth. 

Choose,  if  thou  wilt ;  but  he  that  chooses,  loses." 

.  .  .  Night  on  the  hills  ! 
And  the  ancient  stars  emerge. 
The  silence  of  their  mighty  distances 
Compels  the  world  to  peace.     Now  sinks  the  surge 
Of  life  to  a  soft  stir  of  mountain  rills, 
And  over  the  swarm  and  urge 
Of  eager  men  sleep  falls  and  darkling  ease. 

Night  on  the  hills  \ 
Dark  mother-Night,  draw  near; 
Lay  hands  on  us  and  whisper  words  of  cheer 
So  softly,  oh,  so  softly !     Now  may  we 
54 


Be  each  as  one  that  leaves  his  midnight  task 
And  throws  his  casement  open  ;  and  the  air 
Comes  up  across  the  lowlands  from  the  Sea 
And  cools  his  temples,  as  a  maid  might  ask 
With  shy  caress  what  speech  would  never  dare  ; 
And  he  leans  back  to  her  demure  desires, 
And  as  a  dream  sees  far  below 
The  city  with  its  lights  aglow 
And  blesses  in  his  heart  his  brothers  there ; 
Then  toward  the  eternal  stars  again  aspires. 


ONE  LEAF  MORE 

(Read  at  the  Dinner  given  by  the  Psi  Ufsilon  Association  of 
Washington,  February  7,  1893,  to  Joseph  R.  Hawley,  on 
the  occasion  of  his  re-election  to  the  United  States  Senate) 

SIR,  I  would  do  you  honor  in  some  way 
If  my  poor  hand  could  lay  a  laurel  more 

On  brows  already  thick  with  martial  bay 
And  ivy  evergreen,  the  scholar's  store, 

And  civic  oak  new-garlanded  to-day 

To  bind  afresh  where  oft  were  bound  before 

Its  fronds  forensic  and  are  bound  for  aye. 

But  you  need  not  a  poet's  voice  to  tell 
The  people  who  have  honored  you  so  long 
55 


Why  they  should  love  you  whom  they  know  so  well. 

Still  less  does  any  here  require  my  song 
That  he  should  praise  you  whom  our  hearts  impel 

To  hail  with  homage,  heartfelt,  deep,  and  strong, 
To  which  my  speech  is  but  a  tinkling  bell. 

Still  let  me  praise  you,  though  more  fame  accrue 

To  me  than  you  by  praising.     Praise  is  more 
For  him  that  gives  than  him  to  whom  't  is  due. 

He  that  receives  it  has  a  bounteous  store 
And  needs  it  not.     Who  gives,  grows  just  and  true 

By  speaking  justly.     You  are  as  before, 
But  we  are  better  that  we  honor  you. 

1893 

SPRING 

{Read  at  the  Sixty-third  Anmial  Convention  of  the  Psi  Upsilon 
Fraternity  at  the  University  of  Michigan^  Ann  Arbor,  Mich., 
May  7,  1896) 

I  SAID  in  my  heart,  "  I  am  sick  of  four  walls  and  a 

ceiling. 

I  have  need  of  the  sky. 
I  have  business  with  the  grass. 

I  will  up  and  get  me  away  where  the  hawk  is  wheeling, 
Lone  and  high, 
And  the  slow  clouds  go  by. 
I  will  get  me  away  to  the  waters  that  glass 
The  clouds  as  they  pass. 

56 


To  the  waters  that  lie 

Like  the  heart  of  a  maiden  aware  of  a  doom  drawing 

nigh 

And  dumb  for  sorcery  of  impending  joy. 
I  will  get  me  away  to  the  woods. 
Spring,  like  a  huntsman's  boy, 
Halloos  along  the  hillsides  and  unhoods 
The  falcon  in  my  will. 

The  dogwood  calls  me,  and  the  sudden  thrill 
That  breaks  in  apple  blooms  down  country  roads 
Plucks  me  by  the  sleeve  and  nudges  me  away. 
The  sap  is  in  the  boles  to-day, 
And  in  my  veins  a  pulse  that  yearns  and  goads." 

When  I  got  to  the  woods,  I  found  out 
What  the  Spring  was  about, 
With  her  gypsy  ways 
And  her  heart  ablaze, 
Coming  up  from  the  south 

With  the  wander-lure  of  witch  songs  in  her  mouth. 
For  the  sky 

Stirred  and  grew  soft  and  swimming  as  a  lover's  eye 
As  she  went  by ; 
The  air 

Made  love  to  all  it  touched,  as  if  its  care 
Were  all  to  spare  ; 
The  earth 

Prickled  with  lust  of  birth; 
57 


The  woodland  streams 

Babbled  the  incoherence  of  the  thousand  dreams 

Wherewith  the  warm  sun  teems. 

And  out  of  the  frieze 

Of  the  chestnut  trees 

I  heard 

The  sky  and  the  fields  and  the  thicket  find  voice  in  a 

bird. 

The  goldenwing  —  hark  ! 
How  he  drives  his  song 
Like  a  golden  nail 
Through  the  hush  of  the  air ! 
I  thrill  to  his  cry  in  the  leafage  there ; 
I  respond  to  the  new  life  mounting  under  the  bark. 
I  shall  not  be  long 
To  follow 

With  eft  and  bulrush,  bee  and  bud  and  swallow. 
On  the  old  trail. 

Spring  in  the  world ! 

And  all  things  are  made  new  ! 

There  was  never  a  mote  that  whirled 

In  the  nebular  morn, 

There  was  never  a  brook  that  purled 

When  the  hills  were  born, 

There  was  never  a  leaf  uncurled  — 

Not  the  first  that  grew  — 

Nor  a  bee-flight  hurled, 

58 


Nor  a  bird-note  skirled, 

Nor  a  cloud-wisp  swirled 

In  the  depth  of  the  blue, 

More  alive  and  afresh  and  impromptu,  more  thought 
less  and  certain  and  free, 

More  a-shout  with  the  glee 

Of  the  Unknown  new-burst  on  the  wonder,  than  here, 
than  here, 

In  the  re- wrought  sphere 

Of  the  new-born  year  — 

Now,  now, 

When  the  greenlet  sings  on  the  red-bud  bough 

Where  the  blossoms  are  whispering  "  I  and  thou,"  — 

"  I  and  thou," 

And  a  lass  at  the  turn  looks  after  her  lad  with  a  dawn 
on  her  brow, 

And  the  world  is  just  made —  now  ! 


Spring  in  the  heart ! 

With  her  pinks  and  pearls  and  yellows  ! 

Spring,  fellows, 

And  we  too  feel  the  little  green  leaves  a-start 

Across  the  bare-twigged  winter  of  the  mart. 

The  campus  is  reborn  in  us  to-day ; 

The  old  grip  stirs  our  hearts  with  new-old  joy ; 

Again  bursts  bonds  for  madcap  holiday 

The  eternal  boy. 

59 


For  we  have  not  come  here  for  long  debate 
Nor  taking  counsel  for  our  household  order, 
Howe'er  we  make  a  feint  of  serious  things,  — 
For  all  the  world  as  in  affairs  of  state 
A  word  goes  out  for  war  along  the  border 
To  further  or  defeat  the  loves  of  kings. 
We  put  our  house  to  rights  from  year  to  year, 
But  that  is  not  the  call  that  brings  us  here  ; 
We  have  come  here  to  be  glad. 

Give  a  rouse,  then,  in  the  May  time 

For  a  life  that  knows  no  fear  f 
Turn  night-time  into  daytime 
With  the  sunlight  of  good  cheer  I 
For  it 's  always  fair  weather 
When  good  fellows  get  together 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  good  song  ringing 
clear. 

When  the  wind  comes  up  from  Cuba 

And  the  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
And  our  hearts  are  patting  juba 
To  the  banjo  of  the  spring, 

Then  there  's  no  wonder  whether 
The  boys  will  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  cheer  for  everything. 

For  we  ^re  all  frank-and-twenty 
When  the  spring  is  in 

60 


And  we  've  faith  and  hope  a-plenty. 
And  we  'ye  life  and  love  to  spare y 

And  it  'j  birds  of  a  feather 

When  we  all  get  together^ 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  heart  without  a  care. 

For  we  know  the  world  is  glorious 

And  the  goal  a  golden  thing, 
And  that  God  is  not  censorious 

When  his  children  have  their  fling; 
And  life  slips  its  tether 
When  the  boys  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  in  the  fellowship  of  spring. 

A  road  runs  east  and  a  road  runs  west 

From  the  table  where  we  sing ; 

And  the  lure  of  the  one  is  a  roving  quest, 

And  the  lure  of  the  other  a  lotus  dream. 

And  the  eastward  road  leads  into  the  West 

Of  the  lifelong  chase  of  the  vanishing  gleam ; 

And  the  westward  road  leads  into  the  East, 

Where  the  spirit  from  striving  is  released, 

Where  the  soul  like  a  child  in  God's  arms  lies 

And  forgets  the  lure  of  the  butterflies. 

And  west  is  east,  if  you  follow  the  trail  to  the  end; 

And  east  is  west,  if  you  follow  the  trail  to  the  end ; 

And  the    East  and   the  \Vest  in   the  spring  of  the 

world  shall  blend 

As  a  man  and  a  woman  that  plight 
61 


Their  troth  in  the  warm  spring  night. 

And  the  spring  for  the  East  is  the  sap  in  the  heart  of 

a  tree ; 
And  the  spring  for  the  West  is  the  will  in  the  wings 

of  a  bird ; 

But  the  spring  for  the  East  and  the  West  alike  shall  be 
An  urge  in  their  bones  and  an  ache  in  their  spirit,  a 

word 
That  shall  knit  them  in  one  for  Time's  foison,  once 

they  have  heard. 

And  do  I  not  hear 

The  first  low  stirring  of  that  greater  spring 

Thrill  in  the  underworld  of  the  cosmic  year? 

The  wafture  of  scant  violets  presaging 

The  roses  and  the  tasselled  corn  to  be ; 

A  yearning  in  the  roots  of  grass  and  tree ; 

A  swallow  in  the  eaves  ; 

The  hint  of  coming  leaves  ; 

The  signals  of  the  summer  coming  up  from  Arcadie ! 

For  surely  in  the  blind  deep-buried  roots 
Of  all  men's  souls  to-day 
A  secret  quiver  shoots. 
An  underground  compulsion  of  new  birth 
Lays  hold  upon  the  dark  core  of  our  being, 
And  unborn  blossoms  urge  their  uncomprehended  way 
Toward  the  outer  day. 
Unconscious,  dumb,  unseeing, 
62 


The  darkness  in  us  is  aware 

Of  something  potent  burning  through  the  earth, 

Of  something  vital  in  the  procreant  air. 

Is  it  a  spring,  indeed  ? 
Or  do  we  stir  and  mutter  in  our  dreams, 
Only  to  sleep  again  ? 

What  warrant  have  we  that  we  give  not  heed 
To  the  caprices  of  an  idle  brain 
That  in  its  slumber  deems 
The  world  of  slumber  real  as  it  seems  ? 
No,— 

Spring  *s  not  to  be  mistaken. 
When  her  first  far  flute  notes  blow 
Across  the  snow, 
Bird,  beast,  and  blossom  know 
That  she  is  there. 
The  very  bats  awaken 
That  hang  in  clusters  in  Kentucky  caves 
All  winter,  breathless,  motionless,  asleep, 
And  feel  no  alteration  of  the  air, 
For  all  year  long  those  vasty  caverns  keep, 
Winter  and  summer,  even  temperature ; 
And  yet  when  April  whistles  on  the  hill, 
Somehow,  far  in  those  subterranean  naves, 
They  know,  they  hear  her,  they  obey  her  will, 
And  wake  and  circle  through  the  vaulted  aisles 
To  find  her  in  the  open  where  she  smiles. 
63 


So  we  are  somehow  sure, 

By  this  dumb  turmoil  in  the  soul  of  man, 

Of  an  impending  something.     When  the  stress 

Climbs  to  fruition,  we  can  only  guess 

What  many-seeded  harvest  we  shall  scan ; 

But  from  one  impulse,  like  a  northering  sun, 

The  innumerable  outburst  is  begun, 

And  in  that  common  sunlight  all  men  know 

A  common  ecstasy 

And  feel  themselves  at  one. 

The  comradeship  of  joy  and  mystery 

Thrills  us  more  vitally  as  we  arouse, 

And  we  shall  find  our  new  day  intimate 

Beyond  the  guess  of  any  long  ago. 

Doubting  or  elate, 

With  agony  or  triumph  on  our  brows, 

We  shall  not  fail  to  be 

Better  comrades  than  before  ; 

For  no  new  sense  puts  forth  in  us  but  we 

Enter  our  fellows'  lives  thereby  the  more. 

And  three  great  spirits  with  the  spirit  of  man 
Go  forth  to  do  his  bidding.     One  is  free, 
And  one  is  shackled,  and  the  third,  unbound, 
Halts  yet  a  little  with  a  broken  chain 
Of  antique  workmanship,  not  wholly  loosed, 
That  dangles  and  impedes  his  forthright  way. 
Unfettered,  swift,  hawk-eyed,  implacable, 
64 


The  wonder-worker,  Science,  with  his  wand, 

Subdues  an  alien  world  to  man's  desires. 

And  Art  with  wide  imaginative  wings 

Stands  by,  alert  for  flight,  to  bear  his  lord 

Into  the  strange  heart  of  that  alien  world 

Till  he  shall  live  in  it  as  in  himself 

And  know  its  longing  as  he  knows  his  own. 

Behind  a  little,  where  the  shadows  fall, 

Lingers  Religion  with  deep-brooding  eyes, 

Serene,  impenetrable,  transpicuous 

As  the  all-clear  and  all-mysterious  sky, 

Biding  her  time  to  fuse  into  one  act 

Those  other  twain,  man's  right  hand  and  his  left. 

For  all  the  bonds  shall  be  broken  and  rent  in  sunders 
And  the  soul  of  man  go  free 
Forth  with  those  three 
Into  the  lands  of  wonder  ; 
Like  some  undaunted  youth, 
Afield  in  quest  of  truth, 
Rejoicing  in  the  road  he  journeys  on 
As  much  as  in  the  hope  of  journey  done. 
And  the  road  runs  east,  and  the  road  runs  west, 
That  his  vagrant  feet  explore ; 
And  he  knows  no  haste  and  he  knows  no  rest, 
And  every  mile  has  a  stranger  zest 
Than  the  miles  he  trod  before ; 
And  his  heart  leaps  high  in  the  nascent  year 
5  65 


When  he  sees  the  purple  buds  appear : 

For  he  knows,  though  the  great  black  frost  may  blight 

The  hope  of  May  in  a  single  night, 

That  the  spring,  though  it  shrink  back  under  the  bark, 

But  bides  its  time  somewhere  in  the  dark  — 

Though  it  come  not  now  to  its  blossoming, 

By  the  thrill  in  his  heart  he  knows  the  spring ; 

And  the  promise  it  makes  perchance  too  soon, 

It  shall  keep  with  its  roses  yet  in  June ; 

For  the  ages  fret  not  over  a  day, 

And  the  greater  to-morrow  is  on  its  way. 

1896 

MEN  OF  DARTMOUTH 

MEN  of  Dartmouth,  give  a  rouse 

For  the  college  on  the  hill ! 

For  the  Lone  Pine  above  her 

And  the  loyal  men  who  love  her, — 

Give  a  rouse,  give  a  rouse,  with  a  will ! 

For  the  sons  of  old  Dartmouth, 

The  sturdy  sons  of  Dartmouth  — 

Though  round  the  girdled  earth  they  roam, 

Her  spell  on  them  remains; 

They  have  the  still  North  in  their  hearts, 

The  hill-winds  in  their  veins, 

And  the  granite  of  New  Hampshire 

In  their  muscles  and  their  brains. 
66 


They  were  mighty  men  of  old 

That  she  nurtured  at  her  side, 

Till  like  Vikings  they  went  forth 

From  the  lone  and  silent  North,  — 

And  they  strove,  and  they  wrought,  and  they  died. 

But  —  the  sons  of  old  Dartmouth, 

The  laurelled  sons  of  Dartmouth  — 

The  mother  keeps  them  in  her  heart 

And  guards  their  altar-flame ; 

The  still  North  remembers  them, 

The  hill-winds  know  their  name, 

And  the  granite  of  New  Hampshire 

Keeps  the  record  of  their  fame. 

Men  of  Dartmouth,  set  a  watch 

Lest  the  old  traditions  fail ! 

Stand  as  brother  stands  by  brother! 

Dare  a  deed  for  the  old  Mother  ! 

Greet  the  world,  from  the  hills,  with  a  hail ! 

For  the  sons  of  old  Dartmouth, 

The  loyal  sons  of  Dartmouth  — 

Around  the  world  they  keep  for  her 

Their  old  chivalric  faith; 

They  have  the  still  North  in  their  souls, 

The  hill-winds  in  their  breath  ; 

And  the  granite  of  New  Hampshire 

Is  made  part  of  them  till  death. 

894 

67 

07  OF   THF 

UNIVERSITY 


THE  OLD  PINE 
(Dartmouth  College.) 

IT  stood  upon  the  hill  like  some  old  chief, 
And  held  communion  with  the  cryptic  wind, 
Keeping  like  some  dim,  unforgotten  grief, 
The  memory  of  tribesmen  autumn-skinned, 
Silent  and  slow  as  clouds,  whose  footing  passed 
Down  the  remote  trails  of  oblivion 
Long  since  into  the  shadows  of  the  Past. 
Alone,  aloof,  strong  fellow  of  the  sun, 
We  chose  it  for  our  standard  in  its  prime  ; 
Nor,  though  no  longer  grimly  from  its  hill 
It  fronts  the  world  like  Webster,  wind  nor  time 
Have  felled  its  austere  ghost.     We  see  it  still, 
In  alien  lands,  resurgent  and  undying, 
Flag  of  our  hearts,  from  sudden  ramparts  flying. 

1895 


IN  MEMORIAM 
(A.  H.  Quint) 

MOURN  we  who  honored  him  but  knew  him  not ; 
Grieve  ye  who  loved  him,  looking  on  his  face  ; 
Be  mindful,  Dartmouth,  of  each  strenuous  trace 
That  keeps  his  loyal  record  unforgot. 
68 


There  is  no  faithlessness  in  grief,  God  wot; 
However  high  the  hope  or  clear  the  gaze, 
There  must  be  tears  at  every  burial-place, 
Though  through  the  tears  the  very  sky  be  shot. 

For  death  is  like  the  passing  of  a  star 

That  melts  into  the  splendor  of  the  dawn. 
Were  we  beyond  this  air  that  blurs  our  sight 

In  the  clear  ether  where  the  angels  are, 
We  should  behold  it  still ;  but  now,  withdrawn 
In  sunrise,  lose  it,  looking  on  the  light. 

1896 


DARTMOUTH  ODE 


Out  of  the  hills  came  a  voice  to  me, 
Out  of  the  pine  woods  a  cry : 

"  THOU  hast  numbered  and  named  us,  O  man.     Hast 

thou  known  us  at  all  ? 
Thou  hast  riven  our  rocks   for  their   secrets,  and 

measured  our  heights 
As   a  hillock   is   measured.     But   are   we  revealed  ? 

Canst  thou  call 

Ascutney   thy   fellow?      Or   is   it   thou   Kearsarge 
invites  ? 

69 


What  speech  have  we  given  thee,  measurer  —  cleaver 

of  stones  ? 

For  we  talk  to  the  day-star  at  dawning,  the  night- 
winds  o'  nights, 

And  our  days   are  a   tongue  that  thou  hearest  not, 
digger  of  bones  ! 

"  O  you  who  would  know  us,  come  out  from  the  roofs 

you  have  made, 
And  plunge  in  our  waters  and  breathe  the  sharp  joy 

of  the  air ! 
Let  the  hot  sun  beat  down  on  your  foreheads,  lie 

prone  in  the  shade, 
With  your  hearts  to  the  roots  and  the  mosses,  climb 

till  you  stare 
From  the  summit  that  juts  like  an  island  up  into  the 

sky! 
Watch  the  clouds  pass  by  day,  and  by  night  let  the 

power  of  Altair 
And  Arcturus  and  Vega  be  on  you  to  lift  you  on  high  ! 

"  For  our  heart  is  not  down  on  the  maps,  nor  our 

magic  in  books ; 
But  the  lover  that  seeks  us  shall  find  us,  and  keep 

in  his  heart 
Every  rune  of  our  slow-heaving  hillsides,  the  spaces 

and  nooks 

Of  our  woodlands,  the  sleep  of  our  waters.     His 
thoughts  shall  be  part 
70 


Of  our  thoughts,  and  his  ways  shall  be  with  us.     His 

spirit  shall  flee 
From  the  gluttons  of  fact.     He  shall  dwell,  as  the 

hills  dwell,  apart. 
He  only  that  loves  us  and  lives  with  us,  knows  what 

we  be." 

I  hear  yoii,  O  woods  and  hills  / 
I  hearken,  O  wind  of  the  North  / 


II 


Daughter  of  the  woods  and  hills,  Dartmouth,  my  stern 
Rock-boned  and  wind-brown  sibyl  of  the  snows! 
First  in  thy  praise  whom  we  can  never  praise 
Enough,  I  lay  my  laurel  in  my  turn 
Before  thee  in  thy  uplands.     No  one  goes 
Forth  from  thy  granite  through  the  summer  days. 
And  many  a  land  of  apple  and  of  rose, 
Keeping  in  his  heart  more  faithfully  than  I 
The  love  of  thy  grim  hills  and  northern  sky. 

Mother  of  Webster  !     Mother  of  men  !    Being  great. 

Be  greater  ;  let  the  honor  of  thy  past, 

For  which  we  sit  in  festival,  elate, 

Be  but  the  portent  of  thy  larger  fate, 

The  adumbration  of  a  deed  more  vast. 

With  eyes  upon  the  future,  thou  and  we 


Shall  better  celebrate  the  past  we  praise. 
And  in  the  pledge  of  unaccomplished  days 
Find  a  new  joy  thrill  through  our  pride  in  thee. 

Ill 

O  Dartmouth,  nurse  of  men,  I  see  your  games 

To  make  men  strong,  your  books  to  make  them  wise ; 

But  there  is  other  sight  than  that  of  eyes, 

And  other  strength  than  that  which  strikes  and  maims. 

What  hast  thou  done  to  purge  the  passions  pure, 

To  wake  the  myriad  instincts  that  lie  sleeping 

Within  us  unaroused  and  undivined, 

As  forests  in  a  hazel-nut  endure  ; 

To  fashion  fmelier  our  joy  and  weeping, 

Inspire  us  intuitions  swift  and  sure, 

And  give  us  soul  as  manifold  as  mind; 

To  make  us  scholars  in  the  lore  of  feeling, 

And  turn  the  world  to  beauty  and  revealing  ? 

O  justly  proud  of  thy  first  strenuous  years  ! 
Be  not  content  that  thou  hast  nurtured  well 
The  hardy  prowess  of  thy  pioneers. 
Among  thy  fellows  bold,  be  thou  the  first, 
Still  guarding  sacredly  the  antique  well, 
To  seek  new  springs  to  quench  the  ages'  thirst. 
Take  up  the  axe,  O  woodman  of  the  soul, 
And  break  new  paths  through  tangled  ignorance  ; 
Dare  the  unknown,  till  on  thy  jubilant  glance 
72 


The  prairies  of  the  spirit  shall  unroll. 

For  thou  mayest  teach  us  all  that  thou  hast  taught, 

Nor  slay  the  earlier  instinct  of  the  Faun, 

Whose  intimacy  with  earth  and  air  withdrawn, 

There  rests  but  hearsay  knowledge  in  our  thought. 

And  thou  mayest  make  us  the  familiars  of 

The  woodlands  of  desire,  the  crags  of  fate, 

The  lakes  of  worship  and  the  dells  of  love, 

Even  as  the  Faun  is  Nature's  intimate. 

For  God  lacks  not  his  seers,  and  Art  is  strong, 

And  spirit  unto  spirit  utters  speech, 

Nor  is  there  any  heaven  beyond  the  reach 

Of  them  that  know  the  masteries  of  Song. 

IV 

Oh,  the  mind  and  its  kingdoms  are  goodly,  and  well 

for  the  brain 
That  has  craft  to  discover  and  cunning  to  bind  to 

its  will 
And  wisdom  to  weigh  at  its  worth  all  the  wealth  they 

contain. 
But  the  heart  has  its  empire  as  well,  and  he  shall 

fare  ill 
Who  has  learned  not  the  way  to  its  meadows.     His 

knowledge  shall  be 

A  bitter  taste  in  his  heart;  he  shall  spit  at  his  skill ; 
And  the  days  of  his  life  shall  be  sterile  and  salt  as  the 
sea. 

73 


Ay,  save  the  man's  love  be  made  greater,  even  know 
ledge  shall  wane, 
And  burn  to  the  mere   dry  shrivelled    mummy  of 

thought, 
As  the  sweet  grass  withers  and  dies  if  it  get  not  the 

rain. 
But   we  —  oh,  what  have  we   done  that  the  heart 

should  be  taught  ? 
We    have  given  men  brawn  —  without  love    'tis  the 

Brute  come  again ; 
We  have  given  men  brain  —  without  love  ft  is  the 

Fiend.     Is  there  aught 

We  have  given  to  greaten  the  soul,  we  who  dare  to 
shape  men  ? 

Oh,  train  we  the  body  for  beauty,  and  train  we  the  soul 

Not  only  as  mind  but  as  man,  not  to  know  but  to  be  \ 

Give  us  masters  to  fashion  our  hearts !     Let  the  fool 

be  a  mole 
And  burrow  his  life  out ;  the  wise  man  shall  be  as 

a  tree 
That  sends   down   his   roots  to  the  mole-world,  but 

laughs  in  the  air 
With  his  flowers,  and  his  branches  shall  stretch  to 

the  sun  to  get  free  ; 

And  the  shepherds  and  husbandmen  feed  of  the  fruit 
he  shall  bear. 

iz$tk  anniversary  of  the  college,  1894 
74 


A    WINTER    THOUGHT    OF    DARTMOUTH 
IN    MANHATTAN 

OLD  Mother! 

Mother  off  in  the  hills,  by  the  banks  of  the  beautiful 

river ! 

—  River  lacquered  with  pale  green  luminous  ice 
Now,  and  the  shouldered  ridges  ermined  with  flushed 

white  snow  — 

Our  thoughts  go  back  to  thee,  Mother, 
Straggle  up  the  Connecticut,  and  by  Bellows   Falls 

and  the  Junction, 
Find  thee  at  last  on  thy  hills,  and  embrace  thy  knees, 

old  Mother. 

We  do  not  follow  our  thoughts  upon  that  journey; 
We  have  left  thee,  as  men  leave  mothers, 
Choosing     and   wedding    their  wives     and  cleaving 
thenceforth  to  them  only. 

Ah,  she  is  stronger  than  thou,  she  who  now  holds  us ; 
She  that  sits  by  the  sea,  new-crowned  with  a  five-fold 

tiara  ; 
She  of  the  great  twin  harbors,  our  lady  of  rivers  and 

islands ; 

Tower-topped  Manhattan, 
With  feet  reeded  round  with  the  masts  of  the  five 

great  oceans 

75 


Flowering   the    flags  of    all    nations,   flaunting   and 

furling,  — 

City  of  ironways,  city  of  ferries, 
Sea-Queen  and  Earth-Queen ! 

Look,  how  the  line  of  her  roofs  coming  down  from  the 

north 

Breaks  into  surf-leap  of  granite  —  jagged  sierras  — 
Upheaval  volcanic,  lined  sharp  on  the  violet  sky 
Where  the  red  moon,  lop-sided,  past  the  full, 
Over  their  ridge  swims  in  the  tide  of  space, 
And  the  harbor  waves  laugh  softly,  silently. 

Look,   how  the  overhead  train   at  the   Morningside 

curve 

Loops  like  a  sea-born  dragon  its  sinuous  flight, 
Loops  in  the  night  in  and  out,  high  up  in  the  air, 
Like  a  serpent  of  stars  with  the  coil  and  undulant 

reach  of  waves. 

From  under  the  Bridge  at  noon 

See  from  the  yonder  shore  how  the  great  curves  rise 

and  converge, 
Like  the  beams  of  the  universe,  like  the  masonry  of 

the  sky, 
Like  the  arches  set  for  the  corners  of  the  world, 

The  foundation-stone  of  the  orbic  spheres  and  spaces. 
76 


Is  she  not  fair  and  terrible,  O  Mother  — 

City  of  Titan  thews,  deep-breasted,  colossal-limbed, 

Splendid  with  the  spoil   of   nations,  myriad-mooded 

Manhattan  ? 
Behold,  we  are  hers  —  she  has  claimed  us  ;  and  who 

has  power  to  withstand  her  ? 

Nevertheless,  old  Mother,  we  do  not  forget  thee. 

Thine  is  the  past ! 

Thine  are  the  old  recollections,  the  love  of  the  boy 
hood  still  in  us, 

As  the  sprout  still  lives  in  the  bough  and  remembers 
March  in  the  summer. 

Sword  and  ploughshare  and  engine  forget  not  the  days 

When  the  crude  ore  went  to  the  smelting  and  the 
hammers  rang  on  thy  anvils. 

This    is  a   letter  we   send    from   ocean-dominioned 

Manhattan, 

Bearing  the  love  of  a  boy  from  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Bearing  the  never-evading  remembrance  of  thee  and 

the  hills  and  the  river, 

Thornton  and  Wentworth  and  Reed  and  the  century- 
hollowed  stairways  of  Dartmouth, 
The  old  rooms  where  we  laughed  and  strove  and  sang, 
Where  others  now  —  hark,  do  I  hear  them  ?  — 
Sing  in  the  winter  night,  while  Orion  rises  and  glistens. 

For  the  Dartmouth  Dinner,  New  York,  1898. 
77 


OUR   LIEGE    LADY,   DARTMOUTH 

UP  with  the  green !     Comrades,  our  Queen 
Over  the  hill-tops  comes  to  convene 

Liege  men  all  to  her  muster. 
Easy  her  chain !  Blithe  be  her  reign, 
Queened  in  our  heart's  love,  never  a  stain 

Dimming  her  'scutcheon's  lustre  ! 
Up  with  the  green  !  God  save  our  Queen ! 
Throned  on  the  hills  of  her  highland  demense, 
Royal  and  beautiful,  wise  and  serene, 
Our  Liege  Lady,  Dartmouth ! 

Gallant  and  leal !  Truer  than  steel ! 
Loyally  gather  about  her  and  kneel 

Here  at  her  flag's  unfurling. 
Welcome  her  near  cheer  upon  cheer, 
Shout  till  the  hawk  far  above  us  may  hear, 

Where  the  clouds  in  the  sky  are  curling. 
Starry  her  fame,  Heaven-born  dame ! 
Cannon  and  trumpet  salute  her  high  name ! 
Hear  the  ranks  ring  with  the  royal  acclaim : 
Our  Liege  Lady,  Dartmouth  ! 

Laurel  and  vine,  what  shall  we  twine 
Meet  for  her  brow  who  sits  under  the  pine 

Far  from  the  mad  town's  jarring? 
Gracious  and  fair,  see  in  her  hair 
78 


Jewels  her  noblest  have  brought  her  to  wear, 

Won  in  the  world's  stern  warring ! 
Stainless  her  throne  !  Royal  and  lone  ! 
Born  in  the  purple  the  sunsets  have  thrown 
Over  the  mountains  by  God's  grace  her  own, 
Our  Liege  Lady,  Dartmouth  ! 

Hail  to  the  Queen  !  Look,  where  the  green 
Folds  of  her  banners  about  her  are  seen, 

Flash  of  her  knight's  cuirasses  ! 
True-hearted  throng,  break  into  song  ! 
Rally  her  cavaliers,  faithful  and  strong  ! 

Shout  as  her  ensign  passes  : 
Up  with  the  green  !  God  save  our  Queen  ! 
Throned  on  the  hills  of  her  highland  demesne, 
Royal  and  beautiful,  wise  and  serene, 
Our  Liege  Lady,  Dartmouth  ! 


HANOVER  WINTER-SONG 

Ho,  a  song  by  the  fire  ! 
(Pass  the  pipes,  fill  the  bowl !) 
Ho,  a  song  by  the  fire  ! 
—  With  a  skoal !  .  .  . 

For  the  wolf  wind  is  whining  in  the  doorways, 
And  the  snow  drifts  deep  along  the  road, 
And  the  ice-gnomes  are  marching  from  their  Norways, 
79 


And  the  great  white  cold  walks  abroad. 
(Boooo-o  !  pass  the  bowl !) 

For  here  by  the  fire 

We  defy  frost  and  storm. 

Ha,  ha  !  we  are  warm 

And  we  have  our  hearts'  desire; 

For  here  's  four  good  fellows 

And  the  beechwood  and  the  bellows, 

And  the  cup  is  at  the  lip 

In  the  pledge  of  fellowship. 
Skoal ! 

For  "  Dartmouth  Songs"  1898. 


80 


IV 


8i 


THE    FAUN 

(A  Fantasy  of  the  Washington  Woodlands.) 

I  WILL  go  out  to  grass  with  that  old  King, 

For  I  am  weary  of  clothes  and  cooks. 

I  long  to  paddle  with  the  throats  of  brooks, 

To  lie  down  with  the  clover 

Tickling  me  all  over, 

And  watch  the  boughs  above  me  sway  and  swing. 

Come,  I  will  pluck  off  custom's  livery, 

Nor  longer  be  a  lackey  to  old  Time. 

Time  shall  serve  me,  and  at  my  feet  shall  fling 

The  spoil  of  listless  minutes.     I  shall  climb 

The  wild  trees  for  my  food,  and  run 

Through  dale  and  upland  as  a  fox  runs  free, 

Laugh  for  cool  joy  and  sleep  i'  the  warm  sun,  — 

And  men  will  call  me  mad,  like  that  old  King. 

For  I  am  woodland-natur'd,  and  have  made 
Dryads  my  bedfellows, 
And  I  have  played 

With  the  sleek  Naiads  in  the  splash  of  pools 
And  made  a  mock  of  gowned  and  trousered  fools. 
And  I  am  half  Faun  now,  and  my  heart  goes 
Out  to  the  forest  and  the  crack  of  twigs, 
The  drip  of  wet  leaves,  and  the  low  soft  laughter 
Of  brooks  that  chuckle  o'er  old  mossy  jests 
And  say  them  over  to  themselves,  the  nests 
83 


Of  squirrels,  and  the  holes  the  chipmunk  digs, 

Where  through  the  branches  the  slant  rays 

Dapple  with  sunlight  the  leaf-matted  ground, 

And  th'  wind  comes  with  blown  vesture  rustling  after, 

And  through  the  woven  lattice  of  crisp  sound 

A  bird's  song  lightens  like  a  maiden's  face. 

O  wildwood  Helen,  let  them  strive  and  fret, 
Those  goggled  men  with  their  dissecting  knives  ! 
Let  them  in  charnel-houses  pass  their  lives 
And  seek  in  death  life's  secret !     And  let 
Those  hard-faced  worldlings,  prematurely  old, 
Gnaw  their  thin  lips  with  vain  desire  to  get 
Portia's  fair  fame  or  Lesbia's  carcanet, 
Or  crown  of  Caesar  or  Catullus, 
Apicius'  lampreys  or  Crassus'  gold  ! 
For  these  consider  many  things  —  but  yet 
By  land  nor  sea 

They  shall  not  find  the  way  to  Arcadie, 
The  old  home  of  the  awful  heart-dear  Mother, 
Whereto  child-dreams  and  long  rememberings  lull  us, 
Far  from  the  cares  that  overlay  and  smother 
The  memories  of  old  woodland  outdoor  mirth 
In  the  dim  first  life-burst  centuries  ago, 
The  sense  of  the  freedom  and  nearness  of  Earth  — 
Nay,  this  they  shall  not  know ; 
For  who  goes  thither 

Leaves  all  the  cark  and  clutch  of  his  soul  behind, 
84 


The  doves  defiled  and  the  serpents  shrined, 
The  hates  that  wax  and  the  hopes  that  wither; 
Nor  does  he  journey,  seeking  where  it  be, 
But  wakes  and  finds  himself  in  Arcadie. 

Hist !  there  's  a  stir  in  the  brush. 

Was  it  a  face  through  the  leaves  ? 

Back  of  the  laurels  a  scurry  and  rush 

Hillward,  then  silence,  except  for  the  thrush 

That  throws  one  song  from  the  dark  of  the  bush 

And  is  gone  ;  and  I  plunge  in  the  wood,  and  the  swift 

soul  cleaves 

Through  the  swirl  and  the  flow  of  the  leaves, 
As  a  swimmer  stands  with  his  white  limbs  bare  to  the 

sun 
For  the  space  that  a  breath  is  held,  and  drops  in  the 

sea; 
And  the  undulant  woodland  folds  round  me,  intimate, 

fluctuant,  free, 
Like  the  clasp  and  the  cling  of  waters,  and  the  reach 

and  the  effort  is  done  ;  — 
There  is  only  the  glory  of  living,  exultant  to  be. 

Oh,  goodly  damp  smell  of  the  ground ! 
Oh,  rough  sweet  bark  of  the  trees ! 
Oh,  clear  sharp  cracklings  of  sound  ! 
Oh,  life  that's  a-thrill  and  a-bound 
With   the  vigor  of  boyhood  and   morning   and  the 
noontide's  rapture  of  ease ! 
85 


Was  there  ever  a  weary  heart  in  the  world  ? 

A  lag  in  the  body's  urge,  or  a  flag  of  the  spirit's 

wings? 

Did  a  man's  heart  ever  break 
For  a  lost  hope's  sake  ? 
For  here  there  is  lilt  in  the  quiet  and  calm  in  the 

quiver  of  things. 

Ay,  this  old  oak,  grey-grown  and  knurled, 
Solemn  and  sturdy  and  big, 

Is  as  young  of  heart,  as  alert  and  elate  in  his  rest, 
As  the  oriole  there  that  clings  to  the  tip  of  the  twig 
And  scolds  at  the  wind  that  it  buffets  too  rudely  his 

nest. 

Hear!  hear!  hear! 
Listen !  the  word 
Of  the  mocking-bird ! 
Hear!  hear  I  hear  / 
/  will  make  all  clear  j 
I  will  let  you  know 
Where  the  footfalls  go 
That  throtigh  the  thicket  and  over  the  hill 
Allure,  allure. 
How  the  bird-voice  cleaves 
Through  the  weft  of  leaves 
With  a  leap  and  a  thrill 

Like   the  flash   of    the   weaver's   shuttle,   swift  and 
sudden  and  sure ! 

86 


And  lo,  he  is  gone  —  even  while  I  turn 
The  wisdom  of  his  runes  to  learn. 
He  knows  the  mystery  of  the  wood, 
The  secret  of  the  solitude  ; 
But  he  will  not  tell,  he  will  not  tell 
—  For  all  he  promises  so  well. 

Oh,  what  is  it  breathes  in  the  air  ? 
Oh,  what  is  it  touches  my  cheek  ? 
There 's  a  sense  of  a  presence  that  lurks  in  the 

branches.     But  where  ? 
Is  it  far,  is  it  far  to  seek  ? 

Brother,  lost  brother ! 
Thou  of  mine  ancient  kin  ! 

Thou  of  the  swift  will  that  no  ponderings  smother ! 
The  dumb  life  in  me  fumbles  out  to  the  shade 
Thou  lurkest  in. 

In  vain  —  evasive  ever  through  the  glade 
Departing  footsteps  fail ; 
And  only  where  the  grasses  have  been  pressed 
Or  by  snapt  twigs  I  follow  a  fruitless  trail. 
So  —  give  o'er  the  quest ! 
Sprawl  on  the  roots  and  moss  ! 
Let  the  lithe  garter  squirm  across  my  throat ! 
Let  the  slow  clouds  and  leaves  above  me  float 
Into  mine  eyeballs  and  across,  — 
Nor  think  them  further  !  Lo,  the  marvel !  now, 
Thou  whom  my  soul  desireth,  even  thou 
87 


Sprawl'st  by  my  side,  who  fled'st  at  my  pursuit. 
I  hear  thy  fluting  ;  at  my  shoulder  there 
I  see  the  sharp  ears  through  the  tangled  hair, 
And  birds  and  bunnies  at  thy  music  mute. 

Cool !  cool!  cool f 

Cool  and  sweet 

The  feel  of  the  moss  at  my  feet ! 

And  sweet  and  cool 

The  touch  of  the  wind,  of  the  wind  / 

Cool  wind  out  of  the  blue, 
At  the  touch  of  you 
A  little  wave  crinkles  and  flows 
All  over  me  down  to  my  toes. 

"  Coo-loo  !  Coo-loo  /" 

Hear  the  doves  in  the  tree  tops  croon  / 

"  Coo-loo  /  Coo-loo  /  " 

Love  comes  soon. 

"June!  June!" 
The  veery  sings^ 
Sings  and  sings, 
"June I  June!" 
A  pretty  tune  ! 

Wind  with  your  weight  of  perfume^ 
Bring  me  the  bluebells'  bloom  / 


Ah,  too  much  charmed  I  seek  thee,  and  again 

Thou  meltest  in  the  shadows.     Now  the  breath 

Of  evening  comes,  and  at  the  word  she  saith 

I  rise  and  turn  back  toward  the  streets  of  men. 

First  up  the  hill  to  where  the  trees  are  few, 

To  pause  halfway  between  the  wood  and  town 

And,   strengthened    with   the    Faun's    delight,   look 

down 
Upon  the  roofs  I  am  returning  to. 

The  fervid  breath  of  our  flushed  Southern  May 

Is  sweet  upon  the  city's  throat  and  lips, 

As  a  lover's  whose  tired  arm  slips 

Listlessly  over  the  shoulder  of  a  queen. 

Far  away 

The  river  melts  in  the  unseen. 

Oh,  beautiful  Girl-City,  how  she  dips 

Her  feet  in  the  stream 

With  a  touch  that  is  half  a  kiss  and  half  a  dream ! 

Her  face  is  very  fair, 

With  flowers  for  smiles  and  sunlight  in  her  hair. 

My  westland  flower-town,  how  serene  she  is ! 
Here  on  this  hill  from  which  I  look  at  her, 
All  is  still  as  if  a  worshipper 
Left  at  some  shrine  his  offering. 
Soft  winds  kiss 

My  cheek  with  a  slow  lingering. 
89 


A  luring  whisper  where  the  laurels  stir 

Wiles  my  heart  back  to  woodland-ward  again. 

But  lo, 

Across  the  sky  the  sunset  couriers  run, 

And  I  remain 

To  watch  the  imperial  pageant  of  the  sun 

Mock  me,  an  impotent  Cortez  here  below, 

With  splendors  of  its  vaster  Mexico. 

O  Eldorado  of  the  templed  clouds  ! 

O  golden  city  of  the  western  sky  ! 

Not  like  the  Spaniard  would  I  storm  thy  gates ; 

Not  like  the  babe  stretch  chubby  hands  and  cry 

To  have  thee  for  a  toy ;  but,  far  from  crowds, 

Like  my  Faun-brother  in  the  ferny  glen, 

Peer  from  the  wood's  edge  while  thy  glory  waits, 

And  in  the  darkening  thickets  plunge  again. 

1894 

SWALLOW   SONG 

(Prom  the  Greek) 

HURRAH,  the  swallow,  the  swallow  is  come, 
Bringing  the  spring  from  his  southern  home, 

The  beautiful  hours,  the  beautiful  year ! 
Hurrah,  the  swallow  is  back  from  his  flight, 
With  his  back  of  jet  and  his  breast  of  white, 

The  Summer's  earliest  harbinger ! 
90 


Come,  roll  out  some  figs  from  your  cellar,  old  fellow ! 
Bring  a  beaker  of  wine  that  is  ruddy  and  mellow, 

And  a  wicker  crate  heaped  up  with  cheeses ! 
Be  it  bread  of  pulse  or  bread  of  wheat, 
The  swallow  will  not  disdain  to  eat 

Oh,  the  swallow  and  spring  and  the  buds  and  the 
breezes ! 

Will  you  send  us  away,  or  shall  we  receive 
The  best  that  your  larder  is  able  to  give? 

We  warn  you  —  be  generous,  for  if  you  say  nay, 
Your  gate  shall  be  torn  from  its  hinge  and  destroyed, 
Or  your  wife,  who  is  sitting  within,  be  decoyed,  — 

She  is  small,  we  can  easily  bear  her  away. 

Bring  your  gifts  to  the  swallow,  but  if  you  bring  aught, 
Bring  all  that  you  can,  bring  more  than  is  sought; 

Open  your  doors  for  his  welcoming  ; 
For  we  are  not  grey  old  men,  not  we, 
But  children  who  laugh  in  juvenile  glee, 

And  sing  in  life's  springtide  this  song  of  the  spring. 
1883 

A  HEALTH.     TO  E.  C.  S. 

HERE  's  your  health  in  Burgundy 

And  here  's  your  health  in  rye, 
Until  our  betters  drink  your  health 

In  nectar  by  and  bye. 
1897 


THE  DRAMATIST.     TO  M.  K. 

NOT  to  reveal  one  mystery 

That  lurks  beneath  life's  garment-hem  — 
Alas,  I  write  of  human  hearts 

Because  I  cannot  fathom  them. 


DELSARTE 

As  at  the  altar  of  the  unknown  God 

Even  so  we  stood  before  the  shrine  of  Art. 

Ignorant,  we  worshipped  —  till  the  hill  was  trod 
By  the  Apostle.     Whom  but  thee,  Delsarte  ? 

1893 

WORLD  AND  POET 

"SiNG  to  us,  Poet,  for  our  hearts  are  broken ; 
Sing  us  a  song  of  happy,  happy  love, 
Sing  of  the  joy  that  words  leave  all  unspoken,  - 
The  lilt  and  laughter  of  life,  oh  sing  thereof ! 
Oh,  sing  of  life,  for  we  are  sick  and  dying; 
Oh,  sing  of  joy,  for  all  our  joy  is  dead ; 
Oh,  sing  of  laughter,  for  we  know  but  sighing ; 
Oh,  sing  of  kissing,  for  we  kill  instead  !  " 
How  should  he  sing  of  happy  love,  I  pray, 
Who  drank  love's  cup  of  anguish  long  ago  ? 
How  should  he  sing  of  life  and  joy  and  day, 
92 


Who  whispers  Death  to  end  his  night  of  woe  ? 
And  yet  the  Poet  took  his  lyre  and  sang, 
Till  all  the  dales  with  happy  echoes  rang. 

1891 

THE  SOUTH 

AH,  where  the  hot  wind  with  sweet  odors  laden 
Across  the  roses  faintly  beats  his  wings, 
Lifting  a  lure  of  subtle  murmurings 
Over  the  still  pools  that  the  herons  wade  in, 

Telling  of  some  far  sunset-bowered  Aidenn, 
And  in  an  orange-tree  an  oriole  sings, 
Whereunder  lies,  dreaming  of  unknown  things, 
With  orange-blossoms  wreathed,  a  radiant  maiden,  — 

There  is  the  poet's  land,  there  would  I  lie 
Under  magnolia  blooms  and  take  no  care, 
And  let  my  eyes  grow  languid  and  my  mouth 

Glow  with  the  kisses  of  the  amorous  air, 
And  breathe  with  every  breath  the  luxury 
Of  the  hot-cheeked,  sweet,  heavy-lidded  South. 

1883 

A  CAPRICE  OF  OGAROW.     TO  M.  P. 

IT  is  a  sweet  coquetting.     I  can  see 
Above  the  fan  the  rogue  eyes'  merry  leer, 
The  fitful  feigned  retreatings  that  appear 
To  court  pursuit,  the  cheeks  that  dimple  with  glee 
93 


Like  a  lake  struck  by  a  light  wind,  feet  that  flee 

A  little  way  and  wait  as  if  for  fear 

Light  love  should  yield  the  chase,  —  so  sweet  and 
clear 

The  violin  speech  tells  its  tale  to  me. 
O  art's  rose  lady,  such  themes  have  their  part 

In  beryl-wrought  rare  delicate  interludes  ; 

But  give  not  unto  these  thy  queenlier  art. 
Rather  shouldst  thou  unsphinx  the  rarer  moods 

Of  Chopin  passioning  in  a  star's  red  heart, 

Or  Schubert  sighing  in  the  solitudes. 
1887 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 

THE  maiden  knew  the  hero  was  divine,  — 
For  when  she  saw  him,  was  she  not  content  ? 
So  in  the  satisfaction  of  the  heart 
We  find  his  praise,  nor  with  too  noisy  art 
Proclaim  the  beauty  past  all  ornament 
Of  his  precise  and  unsuperfluous  line. 
1892 

BEETHOVEN'S  THIRD  SYMPHONY. 

PASSION  and  pain,  the  outcry  of  despair, 
The  pang  of  unattainable  desire, 
And  youth's  delight  in  pleasures  that  expire, 
And  sweet  high  dreamings  of  the  good  and  fair 
94 


Clashing  in  swift  soul-storm,  through  which  no  prayer 
Uplifted  stays  the  destined  death-stroke  dire ! 
Then  through  a  mighty  sorrowing  as  through  fire 
The  soul  burnt  pure  yearns  forth  into  the  air 

Of  the  dear  earth  and,  with  the  scent  of  flowers 
And  song  of  birds  refreshed,  takes  heart  again, 
Made  cheerier  with  this  drinking  of  God's  wine, 

And  turns  with  healing  to  the  world  of  men ; 
And  high  above  a  sweet  strong  angel  towers 
And  Love  makes  life  triumphant  and  divine. 

1888 


AUGUST 

THE  white  sky  and  the  white  sea  run 
Their  twin  pearl-splendors  into  one, 

Nor  can  the  eye  distinguish  these, 

Enchanted  by  the  diableries 
The  mist-witch  conjures  in  the  sun. 
Landward  a  white  birch,  like  a  nun, 

Whispers  her  leafy  rosaries. 

Beyond,  where  the  still  woodland  is, 
The  blue  west  leadens  into  dun, 

Close  to  the  dark  tops  of  the  trees. 

1886 


95 


A  BALLADE  OF  MYSTERIES 

DOCTOR,  I  pray  you,  do  no  more  wrong 

To  the  drugged  dog  there  in  the  horrid  room. 

Come,  unmuzzle  ;  disclose  how  the  stars  prolong 
Thin  lines  of  light  through  the  infinite  gloom, 
And  how  life  sprang  in  the  primal  spume. 

Then  I  '11  tell  you  how  the  bells'  ding-dong 
Holds  sweet  talk  with  the  birds  i'  the  broom, 

And  the  poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 

Sage,  who  discernest  in  winter's  thong 

The  thought  at  the  heart  of  June's  perfume, 

Say,  how  grows  the  weak  babe  wise  and  strong, 
And  how  is  Thought  born,  and  by  whom 
May  the  Fates  be  lured  from  the  pitiless  loom, 

And  what  is  Right  and  what  is  Wrong  ? 
Then  I  '11  tell  you  why  the  breakers  boom, 

And  the  poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 

Priest,  tell  me  now,  ere  the  even-song, 
How  God  lay  hid  in  the  Virgin's  womb, 

Who  filleth  the  depth  and  the  height  of  the  long 
Sky-reaches,  and  how  men's  mouths  consume 
His  flesh  that  rose  from  the  sacred  tomb. 

Then  I  '11  tell  you  how  the  clouds  give  tongue 
To  a  message  from  God  of  a  grand  sweet  doom, 

And  the  poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 
96 


Princess,  say  how  the  heart  makes  room 
For  love,  where  the  cares  of  a  kingdom  throng. 

Then  I  '11  tell  you  why  the  roses  bloom 
And  the  poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 

1887 


THE  SHADOWS 

DUMB  as  the  dead,  with  furtive  tread, 

Unseen,  unheard,  unknown,  — 
And  never  a  Gloom  that  turns  his  head 

As  they  stride  where  I  crouch  alone ! 

For  this  is  the  grisliest  horror  there 

As  the  brutal  bulks  go  by  ;    . 
Right  on  they  fare,  with  a  stony  stare, 

Nor  heed  me  where  I  lie. 

Though  I  strain  my  eyes  as  I  freeze  and  cringe 

Till  the  sockets  sizzle  dry, 
And  the  eyeball  shrieks  like  a  rusty  hinge, 

They  will  never  impinge  mine  eye. 

I  shall  see  nought  but  the  silver  darks 

Of  the  sky  and  the  dim  sea, 
Where  horrid  silver  loops  and  arcs 

Foam  phosphorent  at  me. 
7  97 


But  the  cliff,  the  cliff !  Lo,  where  thereon 

Their  silent  shadows  file, 
One  after  one,  one  after  one, 

Mile  on  remorseless  mile. 

Dull  red,  like  embers  in  a  grate, 

Against  the  sulphur  crag, 
They  play  about  the  feet  of  Fate 

Their  awful  game  of  tag. 

1893 

ANGRO-MAINYUS 

I  AM  the  Most  High  God ; 

Worship  thou  me ! 

Put  not  up  vain  prayers  to  avert  my  wrath, 

For  my  wrath  shall  fall  like  the  thunderbolt 

And  thou  shalt  be  cleft  asunder  as  an  oak. 

I  am  Angro-mainyus,  the  Most  High  God. 

Cry  not  unto  me  for  mercy,  for  I  am  merciless. 

Sin  and  Death  are  my  ministers, 

And  my  ways  are  ways  of  torture  and  the  shedding 

of  blood. 
I  am  the  Lord  thy  God. 

I  am  the  Destroyer. 
My  sword  is  as  fire  in  the  forest ; 
98 


My  feet  are  inexorable. 

Ask  me  not  to  deliver  thee  from  evil. 

1  am  Evil. 

Ahura-mazda  is  God  too, 

The  beneficent  one,  the  savior ! 

He  dwelleth  in  the  Sun, 

But  I  in  the  terror  of  tempests. 

There  are  two  thrones,  but  one  God. 

The  waves  of  the  sea  war  mightily, 

But  in  the  deeps  there  is  calm. 

Ahura-mazda  and  I  are  one  God ; 

There  is  war  between  our  legions, 

But  in  us  peace. 

Behold,  he  knoweth  my  thoughts  and  I  his, 

And  there  is  no  discord  in  us. 

He  worketh  in  light 
And  I  in  darkness ; 
His  ways  and  my  ways  are  asunder. 
But  blaspheme  not,  calling  me  "  Devil," 
Neither  saying,  "  There  are  two  Gods  ;  " 
I  am  the  Most  High  God, 
And  I  and  Ahura-mazda  are  one. 
1888 


99 


IMMANENCE 

Enthroned  above  the  world  although  he  sit, 
Still  is  the  world  in  him  and  he  in  it ; 

The  selfsame  power  in  yonder  sunset  glows 
That  kindled  in  the  lords  of  Holy  Writ. 

1893 

TRANSCENDENCE 

THOUGH  one  with  all  that  sense  or  soul  can  see, 
Not  prisoned  in  his  own  creations  he, 

His  life  is  more  than  stars  or  winds  or  angels  — 
The  sun  doth  not  contain  him  nor  the  sea.  t 

1893 

VISITATION 

WAS  it  a  dream,  or  did  I  see  him  there, 

That  quiet  presence  in  my  easy-chair  ? 

Surely  a  sacred  hush  was  in  the  room, 

And  a  dim  sense  of  legends  made  the  gloom 

Of  unlit  tapers  and  a  dying  fire 

Rich  with  the  grace  of  wonderland  drawn  nigher  — 

And  there  across  the  table,  who  but  he? 

I  cannot  think  but  that  he  thought  of  me, 
Far  off,  in  some  diviner  atmosphere, 
And,  thinking  so,  —  if  he  did  not  appear 

IOC 


Indeed,  as  I  half  fancied  then,  and  now 

Still  sometimes  dream,  so  clear  the  wide  calm  brow, 

Shadowed  with  a  sweet  seriousness,  I  see 

Across  the  table  in  my  reverie  — 

Yet,  thinking  so,  his  loving  thought  had  power 

To  make  me  feel  his  presence  like  a  flower 

That  sends  a  heavy  odor  through  the  air, 

To  make  me  see  him,  though  he  was  not  there. 

0  gentle  ghost !  I  would  that  I  could  deem 
That  I  were  worthy  of  that  passing  dream. 

1  would  that  I  could  think  that  my  poor  song 

Had  reached  thee  where  thou  walkest  with  the  throng 
Of  gracious  poets  in  their  glory  crowned, 
Shakespeare  and  Burns  and  Shelley  laurel-bound, 
And  pleased  thee  but  so  much  as  thou  shouldst  turn 
And  yield  one  sigh  for  those  who  still  must  mourn 
On  this  harsh  earth,  one  sigh  for  him  whose  line 
Were  too  much  graced  in  that  one  thought  of  thine. 
1891 

IN   EXCELSIS 

I  SAW  a  man  alone  upon  a  height, 

With    face   toward  heaven.     I  asked  what  did  he 

there. 
"  For  thirty  years  I  have  known  the  stars;  to-night," 

He  said,  "  I  see  the  angels  and  despair." 

1896 

101 


THE   VEILED   LADY 

WHOSO  hath  seen  her  brow  displayed, 
Keeps  silence  of  its  bloom  or  blight. 

She  passeth  through  our  streets  arrayed 
In  weeds  that  screen  her  from  men's  sight 
None  knoweth  if  in  that  veil  bedight 

Lurk  loathsome  hag  or  lovesome  maid. 

Whoso  hath  seen  her  brow  displayed 
Keeps  silence  of  its  bloom  or  blight. 

Men  pass  her  daily  undismayed, 

Yet  often  in  the  sleepless  night 
Cry  "  Grace  or  Gorgon  ?  "  sore  afraid ; 

But  no  word  comes  from  any  wight. 
Whoso  hath  seen  her  brow  displayed, 

Keeps  silence  of  its  bloom  or  blight. 
1888 


THE   MESSENGER 

(For  the  Pictiire  by  G.  P.  Watts) 

STRONG  angel  of  the  peace  of  God, 
Not  wholly  undivined  thy  mien ; 

Along  the  weary  path  I  trod 
Thou  hast  been  with  me  though  unseen. 
102 


My  hopes  have  been  a  mad  turmoil, 
A  clutch  and  conflict  all  my  life, 

The  very  craft  I  loved  a  toil, 
And  love  itself  a  seed  of  strife. 

But  sometimes  in  a  sudden  hour 

I  have  been  great  with  Godlike  calm, 

As  if  thy  tranquil  world  of  power 
Flowed  in  about  me  like  a  psalm. 

And  peace  has  fallen  on  my  face, 

And  stillness  on  my  struggling  breath  ; 

And,  living,  I  have  known  a  space 
The  hush  and  mastery  of  Death. 

Stretch  out  thy  hand  upon  me,  thou 
Who  comest  as  the  still  night  comes! 

I  have  not  flinched  at  buffets  ;  now 
Let  Strife  go  by,  with  all  his  drums. 

1894 

HENRY   GEORGE 

(Died  October  29,  1897) 

OH,  be  his  death  a  clarion 
To  hearten,  not  dismay ! 
Fight  on ! 

We  have  not  lost  the  day.  .  .  . 
103 


Ay,  if  the  day  be  lost,  what  then? 
The  cause,  the  cause  endures. 
Be  men—  ^ 

The  triumph  yet  is  yours, 

The  triumph  every  cause  has  won 
That  called  men  to  be  free  ! 
Fight  on, 
Indomitable  as  he  — 

As  he,  our  captain  without  stain, 

The  Bayard  of  the  poor. 

Be  men  ! 

Flinch  no  man  in  this  hour. 

Remember  him  that  knew  no  fear, 

And  craved  no  diadem. 

A  cheer ! 

Be  that  his  requiem. 

1897 


104 


105 


BENZAQUEN :    A  FRAGMENT 

BOOK   I 

SOUL  of  the  East!      Thou  strong  still  angel  whose 

great  wings, 
Stretched    moveless    in    the   air,   outspread    from 

Himalay 
To  Sinai  and  the  dreaming  Nile !     Whose  ponderings 

Fill  the  rich  womb  of  Asia  with  the  sons  of  day! 
Under  the  shadow  of  whose  brooding   thought  the 

earth 
Breeds  mysteries  and  devotions  !       Shalt  thou  not 

alway, 
As  in  the  beginning,  bring  the  lords  of  life  to  birth  ? 

For  we,  whom  Michael,  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  West, 
Leads  to  the  storm  of  Heaven  with  call  of  drum  and 

fife,— 
We  are  the  lords  of  earth,  lords  of  the  endless  quest, 

Lords  of  the  violent  and  immitigable  strife, 
Lords  of  the   lightnings,  lords  of  iron,  lords  of  the 

Deed; 
But  thine,  O  East,  the  lords  of  life  and  the  springs 

of  life, 
Lords  of  the  void  spaces  of  ths  soul's  extreme  need. 

Therefore  to  thee,  as  when  at  nightfall  o'er  the  hills 

The  shadows  creep  and  overhead  the  silent  stars 

107 


Kindle  their  furtive  fires,   and   all  the  deep  heaven 

fills 
With  soundless  splendors ;  then  the  warder  Sleep 

unbars 
The  gates  of  dream  —  even  so  to  thee  we  come  and 

seek 
Peace    and    the    mirrored   vision    that    no    tumult 

mars, 
The  wisdom  only  Death  and  Night  and  Silence  speak. 

Under  the  cloudlike  sweep  of  those  unmoving  pinions 
Wherewith    the   soul  of    Asia  floats   and   dreams 

unstirred, 
High  on  the  slope  of  that  sheer  mount  whose  peak 

dominions 

The  valley  of  Lake  Van,  roamed  over  by  the  Kurd, 
Ali  the  poet  lay,  and  fever  crunched  his  bones ; 

And  by  him  moved  with  gentle  step  and  soothing 

word 

The  teacher,  Benzaquen,  and  groaned  but  stilled  his 
groans. 

At  last  the  sick  man  slept ;  and  Benzaquen  arose 
And    walked   along    the   soaring   pathway,    where 

beneath 

The  valley  lay  o'erpurpled  ;  and  across  his  brows 
The  wind  laid  its  long  fingers  gently  till  his  teeth 
108 


Relaxed  their  clenching   and   his  heart  grew   calm. 

He  sighed, 
As  one  that  wakes  from  a  deep  trance  and  with  his 

breath 
Drinks  life  in  eagerly,  and,  "  Gentle  God,"  he  cried, 

"  How  comely  in  the  morning  is  thy  face;  how  fair 
Among  the  valleys  is  the  coming  of  thy  feet ! 

The  air  is  glad  of  thee  ;  yea,  as  a  maid  the  air 

Trembles  and  blushes  for  her  lover.     Behold,  the 
wheat 

Bows  down  before  thee  in  the  sun  ;  the  sesame 

Bends  low  beneath  thy  kisses,  for  thy  lips  are  sweet; 

The  peaches  and  pomegranates  stir  and  worship  thee. 

"  How  loving  is  the  Lord  God  and  how  strong  withal ! 
The    fig-tree   putteth  forth    her    fruit    in    the  fair 

weather  ; 

The  clusters  of  the  vine  hang  purple  on  the  wall : 
But  the  north  wind  awakes  and  the  black  frost  strides 

hither, 
And  the  bare  boughs  stretch  gaunt  in  prayer  against 

their  doom. 
The  hand  of  the  Lord  God  is  upon  them  and  they 

wither ; 

The  hand  of  the  Lord  God  is  upon  them  and  they 
bloom. 

109 


"  Praise  him,  ye  hills ;  praise  him,  ye  beech-trees  of 

Sapan  ! 

Praise  him,  sun  and  air  and  divine  reach  of  blue ! 
Praise  him,  ye  rivers  ;  praise  him,  violet  waves  of  Van  ! 
Praise  him,  clouds  and  vapors  and  dear  drench  of 

the  dew ! 
Praise  him,  ye  caverns  of  Mount  Ala,  ye  fountains 

welling 
In  the  groves  of  Baghlar;  for  his  tarrying  is  with 

you,— 
Here  is  the  garden  of  the  Lord,  and  this  is  his  dwelling." 

He  ceased ;  his  chin  fell  on  his  bosom  and  he  wept, 
For  sudden  longing  smote  him  for  the  boy  that  lay 

Sick  in  the  cavern,  his  disciple  ;  and  he  kept 

Weeping,  and  willingly  he  could  have  turned  to  pray 

The  Divine  Father  of  all  to  hear  and  save  the  youth, 
But  would  not ;  so  his  heart  grew  heavier  alway. 

But  him  Sandalphon  heard,  the  angel,  and  had  ruth 

And  came  to  him  ;  and  like  a  wind  he  came  whose 

touch 

Rustles  the  leaves  in  Baghlar.     Thereon  Benzaquen 
Lifted  his  eyes  and  saw  him,  in  apparel  such 

As  at  Baghdad  in  the  schools  among  the  elder  men 

The  young  aspirant  wears.     "  Master,"  the  angel  said, 

"  Why  weepest  thou  ?  "     But  he,  not  knowing  him, 

again 

Let  fall  his  eyes  and  spake  not,  sad,  uncomforted. 
no 


The  angel  spake  on  :  "In  the  streets  of  Van  men  say, 
And  in  Kharput,  that  Ali,  he  who  did  not  fail 

In  the  hour  when  all  rejected  thee,  and  in  the  day 
Of  exile  left  thee  not,  thy  comfort,  waxeth  frail 

With  fever  and,  without  God,  in  three  days  is  dead, 
For  even  thy  knowledge,  wise  hakim,  doth  not  avail." 

And  Benzaquen  made  answer  unto  him  and  said  : 

"  Is  my  name  heard  in  Van  ?     Or  in  Kharput  doth  any 

Remember  me  ?     How  know  they  if  I  come  or  go  ?  " 

He  paused  with  nostrils  wide  for  scorn  of  many  and 

many ; 
Then  sighed  again  with  "  Son,  all  this  thou  sayest 

is  so. 
Why  troublest  thou  me  ?  "     And  Sandalphon  answered 

sweet : 
"  Though  I  be  young,  I  may  speak  wisdom ;  yea, 

although 
I  be  not  old,  my  conversation  may  be  meet. 

*'  Righteous  hast  thou  been  from  thy  youth  ;  thy  voice 

is  heard, 
Morning  and  evening,  praising   God.     Thou  hast 

put  down 

The  atheist  in  the  market-place,  and  with  a  word 
Confuted  them  that  doubt ;  the  young  men  of  the 
town 

in 


Heard  thee  and  scorned  the  scoffers.      Shall   God, 

then,  despise 
Thy  pleading,   or  if  thou  implore  him,   shall  he 

frown  ? 
Open  thy  heart  to  him,  beseech  him  and  be  wise !  " 

Then   Benzaquen    rose   up   and   answered,    and   his 

speech 
Was  wrathful :  "  Knowest  thou  so  much,  and  know- 

est  not  this,  — 
That  therefore  was  I  cast  out  from  among  them  that 

teach  ; 
And  therefore  was  my  name  writ  down  with  words 

that  hiss 

And    sear    into    my    soul,    Accurstj    therefore,    re 
belling, 

I  bide  alone  and  know  no  more  my  father's  kiss ; 
Therefore    the     caverns    of     Mount    Ala    are     my 
dwelling ! 

"  Because  I  would  not  speak  vain  words  to  the  All 

Wise, 

Nor  blur  discretion,  babbling.     Shall  a  man  aspire 
Before  Him  who  controls  the  inexorable  skies 

To  say  This  thing  is  good  or  That  thing  I  desire  ? 
Who  then  is   he  takes  counsel  with  the  Almighty? 
Who 

112 


Enlargeth  knowledge  and  judgment  for  the  Eternal 

Sire? 

Who  thinks  to  change  his  will,  or  mould  his  works 
anew  ? 

"  Shall  the  iron  argue  with  the  smith  what  it  would 

be? 

Or  shall  the  wrought  iron  reason  with   the   iron 
monger 
To  whom  it  would  be  sold  ?     Though  all  men  cry, 

shall  He 
Who  shifts  not,  alter  ?     The  old  seek  safety  and 

the  younger 
Folly ;  but  his  remorseless  laws  are  not  reversed. 

Shall  the  fruits  ripen  ere  their  season  if  I  hunger? 
Or  shall  the  desert  give  forth  water  if  I  thirst? 

"  Consider  the  stars,  how  they  obey  their  times  and 

seasons ; 

Their  rising  and  their  setting  has  been  fixed  for  aye. 
When  the  recurring  heavens  shall  fail,  there  may  be 

reasons 
To  hope  that  God  shall  hearken  unto  them  that 

pray.  .  .  . 

But  thou,  if  thou  hast  sought  me  not  for  disputation 
Or  pride  of  speech  but  kindly-hearted,  make  no 

stay, 

But  get  thee  to  the  city  to  the  habitation 
8  113 


"Of  Hafiz  the  physician;  beg  of  him  three  grains 

Of  that  elixir  that  the  great  Al-Mamun  gave 
When  we  two  knew  him  at   Baghdad.     There  yet 

remains 
This  one  chance  to  redeem  the  sick  man  from  the 

grave ; 
But  save  this  I  know  not  what  hope  there  be  in  art." 

Sandalphon  answered  not ;  angelic  natures  crave 
The  soul's  guest-welcome,  —  in  the  inhospitable  heart 

They  have  no   power  to  enter,  and  they  hold  their 

peace. 
Even  so  Sandalphon;    and  he  bowed  his  comely 

head 
With  courtesy  celestial,  then  between  the  trees 

Departed.     Benzaquen  looked  after  as  he  sped 
Down   the   steep   pathway  with   so   light   a   step    it 

seemed 
More  like  the  swallow's  flight   along  the  ground 

than  tread 

Of  a   man  walking.      But    even    as   he  looked   he 
dreamed 

Self-elsewhered  and  lost  sight,  and  when  he  looked 

once  more 

Nought  moving  saw  he  save  the  cony  in  the  rocks 
And  on  the  air  the  silent  vulture  far  a-soar. 

And   as  the   shepherd   turns    at   evening  with  his 
flocks 

114 


Foldward,    and   with   the    calm   of    nightfall   in   his 

thought 

Feels,  as  he  passes  in  the  fields  the  restful  ox, 
Sweet  kinship;  so   the   teacher,   strangely   peaceful, 

sought 

Again  his  cave,  —  and  lo !  upon  a  rock-shelf  there 
Lay  the  elixir.     All  the  place  was  fraught  about 

With  odor,  and  upon  the  sleeping  Ali's  hair 

The  sun  fell  like  a  mystic  wine  of  light  poured  out 

In  cupfuls.     Benzaquen  stood  motionless  and  gazed 
Upon  the  vial  with  a  wild  and  wondering  doubt, 

Silent,  uncomprehending,  ominous,  amazed. 


1893 


'^Aif^X 
O-THE  X 

UNIVERSITY 


By      RICHARD      HOVEY 

Launcelot  £^  Guenevere 

A   POEM  IN  DRAMAS. 

I.  The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.  II.  The  MARRIAGE  ^/"GUENEVERE. 
III.  Tlie  BIRTH  O/GALAHAD.  IV.  TALIESIN. 

V.   The  HOLY  GRAAL  (in  preparation). 

5  volumes,  i6mo,  paper  board  sides,  vellum  backs,  with  decoration 
in  gold  by  Bertram  Grosvenor  Goodhue. 

(For  description  of  the  separate  volumes  see  the  following  pages.) 

Reviewing  the  first  three  volumes  of  this  work,  George 
Hamlin  Fitch  wrote  as  follows  in  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle : 

"  A  new  poet,  saturated  with  the  spirit  of  the  present,  and 
yet  with  the  strength,  the  sweetness,  and  the  technical  skill  of 
the  men  who  have  become  English  classics  —  this  is  what  the 
world  of  English-speaking  readers  has  been  awaiting  for  more 
than  a  generation.  .  .  .  Hence  the  appearance  is  noteworthy 
of  an  American  poet  with  a  work  which  places  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  poets  of  to-day,  and  which  makes  him,  in  my 
judgment,  the  rightful  claimant  to  the  place  left  vacant  by  the 
authors  of  '  Pippa  Passes  '  and  '  The  Idyls  of  the  King.'  This 
may  seem  to  be  high,  even  extravagant  praise,  but  when  one 
reads  carefully  these  three  books  of  verse,  there  can  be  no 
other  judgment  than  that  here  is  a  genius  whose  first  mature 
poem  gives  promise  of  splendid  creative  work  during  the  next 
decade.  .  .  .  They  form  a  drama  which  is  full  of  the  passion 
and  power  of  Browning,  yet  with  much  of  the  charm  of  Shakes 
peare's  plays.  At  first  blush  it  seems  presumptuous  in  a 
young  poet  to  attempt  the  theme  on  which  Tennyson  lavished 
his  best  powers  ;  but  when  one  has  read  Mr.  Hovey's  poems 
he  sees  at  once  the  absolute  originality  of  the  younger  poet." 

SMALL,   MAYNARD   6-  COMPANY,  Publishers 


Launcelot  £^  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  ^/RICHARD    HOVEY 

I.  The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.     A  Masque. 

$1.25. 

"The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  shows  indisputable  talent  and  in 
disputable  metrical  faculty. —  The  Athen&um,  London. 

Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  this  work,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  the  singer  is  master  of  the  technique  of  his  art ;  that  for 
him  our  stubborn  English  tongue  becomes  fluent  and  musical. 
.  .  .  Underlying  all  these  evidences  of  artistic  skill  is  a  deeper 
intent,  revealing  in  part  the  poet's  philosophy  of  being.  ...  — 
Washington  Post. 

"The  Quest  cf  Merlin"  has  all  the  mystery  and  exquisite 
delicateness  of  a  midsummer  night's  dream. —  Washington 
Republic. 

II.  The  MARRIAGE  of  GUENEVERE.     A 

Tragedy.     $1.50. 

It  requires  the  possession  of  some  remarkable  qualities  in 
Mr.  Richard  Hovey  to  impel  me  to  draw  attention  to  this 
"  poem  in  dramas  "  which  comes  to  us  from  America.  .  .  .  The 
volume  shows  powers  of  a  very  unusual  quality, — clearness 
and  vividness  of  characterization,  capacity  of  seeing,  and,  by  a 
few  happy  touches,  making  us  see,  ease  and  inevitableness  of 
blank  verse,  free  alike  from  convolution  and  monotony.  .  .  . 
If  he  has  caught  here  and  there  the  echo  of  other  voices,  his 
own  is  clear  and  full-throated,  vibrating  with  passionate  sensi 
bility.  —  HAMILTON  AIDE,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  London. 

There  are  few  young  poets  who  start  so  well  as  Mr.  Richard 
Hovey.  He  has  the  freest  lilt  of  any  of  the  younger  Ameri 
cans.  —  WILLIAM  SHARP,  in  The  Academy,  London. 

The  strength  and  flexibility  of  the  verse  are  a  heritage  from 
the  Elizabethans,  yet  plainly  stamped  with  Mr.  Hovey's  indi 
viduality. —  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS,  in  The  Bookbuyer. 

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Launcelot  <£^  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  by     RICHARD     HOVEY 

III.  The  BIRTH  of  GALAHAD.     A  Roman 

tic  Drama.     $1.50. 

"  The  Birth  of  Galahad  "  is  the  finest  of  the  trilogy,  both  in 
sustained  strength  of  the  poetry  and  in  dramatic  unity.  — 
GEORGE  HAMLI.X  FITCH,  in  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

It  is  written  with  notable  power,  showing  a  strong  dramatic 
understanding  and  a  clear  dramatic  instinct.  Mr.  Hovey  took 
his  risk  when  he  boldly  entered  Tennyson's  close,  but  we  can 
not  see  that  he  suffers.  —  The  Independent,  New  York. 

Richard  Hovey  .  .  .  must  at  least  be  called  a  true  and  re 
markable  poet  in  his  field.  He  can  not  only  say  things  in  a 
masterly  manner,  but  he  has  something  impressive  to  say.  .  .  . 
Nothing  modern  since  the  appearance  of  Swinburne's  "Ata- 
lanta  in  Calydon  "  surpasses  them  [these  dramas]  in  virility 
and  classical  clearness  and  perfection  of  thought.  —  JOEL 
BENTON,  in  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

IV.  TALIESIN.     A  Masque.     $1.00. 

"  Taliesin  "  is  a  poet's  poem.  As  a  part  of  the  "  Poem  in 
Dramas,"  it  introduces  the  second  trilogy,  and  prefigures  "  The 
Quest  of  the  Graal."  It  is  in  many  ways  the  author's  highest 
achievement.  It  is  the  greatest  study  of  rhythm  we  have  in 
English.  It  is  the  greatest  poetic  study  that  we  have  of  the 
artist's  relation  to  life,  and  of  his  development.  And  it  is  a 
significant  study  of  life  itself  in  its  highest  aspiration. — 
CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The  Bookman. 

No  living  poet  whose  mother-tongue  is  English  has  written 
finer  things  than  are  scattered  through  "  Taliesin." —  RICHARD 
HENRY  STOOD  A  RD,  in  The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

It  is  sheer  poetry  or  it  is  nothing,  the  proof  of  an  ear  and  a 
voice  which  it  seems  ill  to  have  lost  just  at  the  moment  of 
their  complete  training.  In  his  death  there  is  no  doubt  that 
America  has  lost  one  of  her  best  equipped  lyrical  and  dra 
matic  poets.  —  EDMUXD  CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  in  An  Amer 
ican  Anthology. 

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Launcelot  ^  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  by    RICHARD     HOVEY 

V.  The  HOLY  GRAAL.  Fragments  of  the  Five 
Unfinished  Dramas  of  the  Launcelot  & 
Guenevere  Series  (in  preparation).  $1.50. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Hovey's  intention  to  complete  his  notable 
Arthurian  Series  in  nine  dramas,  of  which  only  four  had  been 
published  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  left  fragmentary  por 
tions  in  manuscript  of  all  the  remaining  five,  and  these  frag 
ments  have  been  edited  and  arranged,  with  notes,  by  his  widow, 
as  the  only  possible  attempt  toward  completion  of 'this  match 
less  monument  of  American  verse. 

ALONG     THE     TRAIL 

A  Book  of  Lyrics  £>/    RICHARD     HOVEY 

i6mo,  brown  cloth,  gold  cover  decoration  by  Bertram  Gros- 
venor  Goodhue.     $1.50. 

Richard  Hovey  has  made  a  definite  place  for  himself  among 
the  poets  of  to-day.  This  little  volume  illustrates  all  his  good 
qualities  of  sincerity,  fervor,  and  lyric  grace.  He  sings  the 
songs  of  the  open  air,  of  battle  and  comradeship,  of  love,  and 
of  country,  —  and  they  are  all  songs  well  sung.  In  addition, 
his  work  is  distinguished  by  a  fine  masculine  optimism  that  is 
all  too  rare  in  the  poetry  of  the  younger  generation.  —  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  Philadelphia. 

As  a  whole  it  stands  the  most  searching  test  —  you  read  it 
again  and  again  with  constantly  increasing  pleasure,  satisfac 
tion,  and  admiration.  —  Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Hovey  has  the  full  technical  equipment  of  the  poet,  and 
he  has  a  poet's  personality  to  express,  —  a  personality  new  and 
fresh,  healthy  and  joyous,  manly,  vigorous,  earnest.  Added 
to  this  he  has  the  dramatic  power  which  is  essential  to  a  broad 
poetic  endowment.  He  is  master  of  his  art  and  master  of  life. 
He  is  the  poet  of  joy  and  belief  in  life.  He  is  the  poet  of 
comradeship  and  courage.  —  CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The 
Bookman. 

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Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS   CARMAN  Or*  RICHARD   HOVEY 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  with  cover  and  end  paper 
decorations  by  Tom  B.   Meteyard.      gi.oo. 


A  book  full  of  the  rapture  of  the  open  air  and  the  open  road,  of  the 
wayside  tavern  bench,  the  April  weather,  and  the  "  manly  love  of  com 
rades."  .  .  .  The  charm  and  interest  of  the  book  consist  in  the  real, 
frank  jollity  of  mood  and  manner,  the  gypsy  freedom,  the  intimate, 
natural  happiness  of  these  marching,  drinking,  fighting,  and  loving 
songs.  They  proclaim  a  blithe,  sane,  and  hearty  Bohemianism  in 
the  opening  lines.  .  .  .  The  mood  is  an  unusual  one,  especially  in 
verse,  but  welcome,  if  only  as  a  change,  after  the  desperate  melan 
choly,  the  heart-sickness,  and  life-weariness  of  the  average  verse-writer 
—  London  Athenceum. 

Between  the  close  covers  of  this  narrow  book  there  are  some  fifty- 
odd  pages  of  good  verse  that  Bobby  Burns  would  have  shouted  at  his 
plough  to  see  and  Elia  Lamb  would  have  praised  in  immortal  essays. 
These  are  sound,  healthy  poems,  with  a  bit  of  honest  pathos  here  and 
there,  to  be  sure,  but  made  in  the  sunlight  and  nurtured  with  whole 
some,  manly  humors.  There  is  not  a  bit  of  intellectual  hypochondria 
in  the  little  book,  and  there  is  not  a  line  that  was  made  in  the  sweat  of 
the  brow.  They  are  the  free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing 
because  their  hearts  are  full  of  music,  and  who  have  their  own  way  of 
singing,  too.  These  are  not  the  mere  echoes  of  the  old  organ  voices. 
They  are  the  merry  pipings  of  song-birds,  and  they  bear  the  gift  of 
nature.  —  New  York  Times. 

The  authors  of  the  small  joint  volume  called  "  Songs  from  Vaga 
bondia"  have  an  unmistakable  right  to  the  name  of  poet.  These 
little  snatches  have  the  spirit  of  a  gypsy  Omar  Khayy;im.  They  have 
always  careless  verve,  and  often  careless  felicity ;  they  are  masculine 
and  rough,  as  roving  songs  should  be.  .  .  .  You  have  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  book  in  such  an  unforgettable  little  lyric  as  "  In  the  House  of 
Idiedaily." —  FRANCIS  THOMPSON,  in  Merry  England. 

For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

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More  Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS    CARMAN  6-  RICHARD    HOVEY 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  with  cover  and  end  paper 
decorations  by  Tom  B.  Meteyard.      gi.oo. 


The  second  volume  is  no  less  worthy  of  welcome  than  the  first. 
We  find  the  same  ardent  imagination,  the  same  delicacy  and  grace  of 
rhythm  as  before.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  muse  of  these  poems  may  be  a  reckless,  wanton  baggage  .  .  . 
but  her  eyes  are  as  honest  as  the  growth  of  a  tree  or  the  movement  of 
a  deer,  and  she  is  as  clean  and  wholesome  as  a  burgeoning  spring  noon. 
—  Boston  Journal. 

How  long  is  it  since  another  volume  appeared  so  packed  with  high 
spirits  and  good  humor?  Certainly  not  since  the  original  "Songs 
from  Vagabondia  "  came  out.  The  poetry  fairly  bubbles  over, —  even 
over  into  the  inside  of  the  covers,  where  some  verses  are  enshrined  in 
drawings.  It  is  a  book  that  makes  the  reader  young  again.  —  Buffalo 
Express. 

Hail  to  the  poets !  Good  poets !  Real  poets  !  .  .  .  They  are  the 
free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing  because  their  hearts  are  full 
of  music  ;  and  they  have  their  own  way  of  singing,  too.  "  Songs  from 
Vagabondia"  ought  to  go  singing  themselves  into  every  library  from 
Denver  to  both  seas,  for  they  are  good  to  know.  —  New  York  Times. 

These  gentlemen  have  something  to  say,  and  they  say  it  in  a  hale 
and  ready  way  that  is  as  convincing  as  it  is  artistic.  One  is  not  met 
at  every  turn  by  some  platitude  laboriously  wrought,  which  the  minor 
poets  nowadays  so  delight  in,  but  a  ring  and  a  cheer  and  a  manner 
neither  obscure  nor  commonplace,  with  just  enough  mystery  to  delight 
and  stimulate  the  imagination  without  overtaxing  it.  —  Washington 
Star. 

The  pulsing  of  warm,  youthful  blood,  the  joy  of  living,  and  comrade 
ship  are  enclosed  between  the  covers  of  "More  Songs  from  Vaga 
bondia."  The  poems  are  full  of  exuberant  vitality,  with  a  fine  and 
energetic  rhythm.  —  The  Argonaut. 


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Last   Songs   from   Vagabondia 

By    BLISS    CARMAN    6-    RICHARD    HOVEY 
i6mo,  paper  boards,  with  cover  and  end  paper 
decorations   by   Tom   B.  Meteyard.          $1.00 

This  third  collection  makes  a  fitting  close  to  the  fresh  and 
exhilarating  poetry  of  the  two  preceding  volumes  of  the  series. 
It  contains,  in  addition  to  verses  set  aside  for  this  purpose  by 
both  authors  prior  to  Mr.  Hovey's  death,  certain  later  poems 
by  Mr.  Carman,  reminiscent  of  his  friend  and  fellow-vagabond. 

"  The  sight  of  'Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia'  must  raise  a 
pang  in  many  breasts,  a  remembrance  of  two  best  of  comrades 
sundered.  They  were  mad  carols,  those  early  Vagabondian 
lays,  with  here  and  there  a  song  more  seriously  tuned,  but 
beyond  their  joyous  ebullition  were  beauty  of  no  uncertain 
quality,  the  riches  of  Vagabondia  —  love  and  youth  and  com 
radeship —  and  the  glamour  of  the  great  world  unexplored. 
All  those  qualities  are  embodied  in  these  '  Last  Songs/  nor  is 
the  joy  in  living  absent,  only  softened  to  a  soberer  tone.  The 
themes  vary  little,  the  joys  of  the  road  are  still  undimmed, 
there  is  ever  closer  cleaving  of  comrade  to  comrade,  and  there 
is  the  old  buckling  on  of  bravery  against  the  battle ;  under 
neath  all  this  a  note  hitherto  unheard  in  Vagabondia,  a  sense  of 
the  inescapable  loneliness  of  every  soul.  Both  Mr.  Carman 
and  Mr.  Hovey  have  perfect  command  of  the  lyric  form,  both 
the  power  to  -imprison  in  richly  colored  verse  a  complete 
expression  of  the  wander-spirit."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Worthy  to  take  their  place  alongside  their  charming  and 
inspiriting  predecessors."  —  Boston  Journal. 

"  One  finds  in  this  volume  the  breadth  of  view,  the  spon 
taneous  joy,  the  unexpected  outlook,  and  the  felicity  of 
touch  which  betray  the  true  poet."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  The  charm  of  the  verses,  especially  of  the  lyrics,  is  as  great  in 
this  as  in  the  two  previous  volumes." —  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

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By         BLISS         CARMAN 

LOW    TIDE    ON    GRAND    PRE. 
A  Book  of  Lyrics.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  with  cover  design  in  blind  by  T.  B.  Meteyard. 
A  new  edition  of  Mr.  Carman's  first  published  book  of  poetry 
with  three  poems  not  included  in  the  first  edition. 
Mr.  Carman  is  a  poet  in  every  fibre  of  his  mortal  frame,  with  a 
Keats-like  sensitiveness  to  beauty.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

There  is  an  unextinguishable  idealism  in  all  his  work.  The  loveli 
ness  of  it  is  not  coarsely  appealing,  there  is  no  blatant  drawing  of 
attention ;  but  the  elements  of  high  poetry  are  always  there.  ...  No 
lovelier,  truer,  more  distinctive  verse  is  being  written  in  our  day  than 
that  of  this  Canadian  singer.  —  RICHARD  BURTON,  in  The  Satur 
day  Evening  Post. 

BEHIND   THE   ARRAS. 

A  Book  of  the  Unseen.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  decorative,  with  eight  illustrations  by  T.  B.  Mete- 
yard.  The  subtitle  of  this  book,  and  the  dedication,  "To 
G.  H.  B.,— 

I  shut  myself  in  with  my  soul, 
And  the  shapes  come  eddying  forth," — 

explains  the  tenor  of  its  contents,  which,  for  the  most  part  in  a 
minor  key,  are  full  of  thought,  of  suggestion,  and  of  the  connec 
tion  between  soul  and  spirit.  Mr.  Meteyard  has  admirably 
caught  the  subtle  suggestions  of  the  text,  and  his  illustrations 
add  greatly  to  its  expression. 

The  collection  is  of  exceptional  merit,  and  besides  its  poetic  quality 
has  two  excellent  characteristics  :  it  awakens  interest  and  compels 
thought.  —  Halifax  Herald. 

BY  THE  AURELIAN  WALL. 

And  Other  Elegies.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  decorative,  with  cover  design  by  G.  H.  Hallowell. 
Among  the  elegies  contained  in  this  volume  is  the  beautiful 
threnody  for  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, —  "A  Sea-mark,"  — 
which,  separately  published  some  years  ago,  aroused  the  admi 
ration  of  the  critics. 

As  a  maker  of  ballads,  imaginative  and  full  of  haunting  memory,  Mr. 
Carman  is  easily  the  master  among  his  contemporaries.  —  The  Critic. 

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By         BLISS         CARMAN 

BALLADS   OF   LOST   HAVEN. 
A  Book  of  the  Sea.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  decorative. 

By  far  the  best  book  he  has  written.  ...  He  is  a  genuine  poet.  — 
The  Critic. 

It  is  a  hundred  pages  of  salt  sea,  without  a  trace  of  Kipling,  and  yet 
having  a  sea-flavor  as  unmistakable  as  his.  and  with  a  finer  touch  — 
with  less  of  repetition,  less  of  mere  technicality,  and  a  more  varied 
human  interest.  —  The  Nation. 

Beyond  all  other  American  poets  whom  we  recall  he  has  been 
most  inspired  to  sing  of  the  sea,  not  as  Byron  was,  in  a  vaguely  sub 
lime  fashion  by  the  Mediterranean,  nor,  as  Barry  Cornwall  was,  by  a 
lyrical  love  of  " The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea"  (upon  which  he  never 
had  marine  hardihood  enough  to  trust  himself),  but  by  the  sight  and 
sound  of  waves  —  the  sea  from  the  shore.  It  furnishes  him  with  a 
diction  of  its  own,  with  words  which  are  things,  with  vital  phrases, 
and  with  a  sense  of  movement  and  color.  —  The  Mail  and  Express. 

A  WINTER   HOLIDAY.  75  cents. 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  cover  design  in  silver,  by  T.  B.  Meteyard. 

Of  the  seven  poems  making  up  the  collection,  five  directly  reflect  the 
warm,  many-colored  experiences  of  the  Bahamas.  The  two  other 
pieces,  "  December  in  Scituate"  and  "Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell,"  de 
pict  in  sharp  contrast,  yet  with  equal  charm,  New  England  winter 
scenes  indoors  and  out.  They  show  that  this  poet's  remarkable  gift 
for  nature-description  is  as  much  in  evidence  when  dealing  with  win 
ter's  monochromes  as  when  moved  by  all  the  vibrancy  and  bloom  of 
the  full  summer  tide. 

But  perhaps  the  full  Carman  quality  comes  out  best  in  the  poems 
chanting  his  mid-sea  life,  his  joy  of  the  Bahaman  approach  ;  his  joy 
again  in  White  Nassau,  with  its  quaint,  clean  streets,  its  picturesque 
peddlers,  and  gay-plumaged  birds.  He  fairly  revels  in  this  world  of 
color,  light,  fragrance,  and  song.  —  RICHARD  BURTON,  in  Saturday 
Evening  Post. 

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A   STANDARD    LIBRARY   OF   BIOGRAPHY 

THE    BEACON    BIOGRAPHIES 
OF    EMINENT    AMERICANS 


The  aim  of  this  series  is  to  furnish  brief,  readable,  and 
authentic  accounts  of  the  lives  of  those  Americans  whose 
personalities  have  impressed  themselves  most  deeply  on 
the  character  and  history  of  their  country.  On  account 
of  the  length  of  the  more  formal  lives,  often  running  into 
large  volumes,  the  average  busy  man  and  woman  have 
not  the  time  or  hardly  the  inclination  to  acquaint  them 
selves  with  American  biography.  In  the  present  series 
everything  that  such  a  reader  would  ordinarily  care  to 
know  is  given  by  writers  of  special  competence,  who 
possess  in  full  measure  the  best  contemporary  point  of 
view.  Each  volume  is  equipped  with  a  photogravure 
portrait,  an  engraved  title-page,  a  calendar  of  important 
dates,  and  a  brief  bibliography  for  further  reading. 
Finally,  the  volumes  are  printed  in  a  form  convenient  for 
reading  and  for  carrying  handily  in  the  pocket. 

"  They  contain  exactly  what  every  intelligent  American  ought  to 
know  about  the  lives  of  our  great  men." — Boston  Herald. 

"  Surprisingly  complete  studies,  . . .  admirably  planned  and  executed." 
—  Christian  Register. 

"  Prepared  as  carefully  as  if  they  were  so  many  imperial  quartos, 
instead  of  being  so  small  that  they  may  be  carried  in  the  pocket." — 
New  York  Times. 

"  They  are  books  of  marked  excellence." —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  They  interest  vividly,  and  their  instruction  is  surprisingly  compre 
hensive." —  The  Outlook. 

Price  per  volume,  cloth,  750.  net.       Lambskin,  $1.00  net. 

For  list  of  titles  see  next  page. 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON 


THE    BEACON   BIOGRAPHIES 
OF     EMINENT     AMERICANS. 

The  following  volumes  are  issued:  — 

Louis  Agassiz,  by  ALICE  BACHE  GOULD. 

John  James  Audubon,  by  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

Edwin  Booth,  by  CHARLES  TOWNSEND  COPELAKD. 

Phillips  Brooks,  by  M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE. 

John  Brown,  by  JOSEPH  EDGAR  CHAMBERLIN. 

AarOC  Burr,  by  HENRY  CHILDS  MERWIN. 

James  Fenimore  Cooper,  by  W.  B.  SHUBRICK  CLTMBR. 

Stephen  Decatur,  by  GYROS  TOWNSEND  BRADT. 

Frederick  Douglass,  by  CHARLES  W.  CHESNUTT. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  by  F*.*NK  B.  SANBORN. 

David  G.  Farragut,  by  JAMES  BARNES. 

Ulysses  S.  Grant,  by  OWEN  WISTM. 

Alexander  Hamilton,  by  JAMES  SCHOOLER. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  by  Mrs.  JAMES  T.  FIZLDS. 

Father  Hecker,  by  HENRY  D.  S^DGWICK,  Jr. 

Sam  Houston,  by  SARAH  BARNWSLL  ELLIOTT. 

"  Stonewall "  Jackson,  by  CARL  HOVKT. 

Thomas  Jefferson,  by  THOMAS  E.  WATSON. 

Robert  E.  Lee,  by  WILLIAM  P.  TRENT. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow,  by  GEORGE  RICK  CARPENTER. 

James  Russell  Lowell,  by  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  Jr. 

Samuel  F.  B.  Morse,  by  JOHN  TROWBRIDGZ. 

Thomas  Paine,  by  ELLERY  SEDGWICK. 

Daniel  Webster,  by  NORMAN  HAPGOOD. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  by  RICHARD  BURTON. 

Price  per  volume,  cloth,  75C.  net;  leather,  $1.00  net. 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY,   Publishers. 


A  Comptni**  Strifs  to  tbe  Beacon  Biografbiu 

THE  WESTMINSTER   BIOG- 
RAPHIES   of  Eminent    Englishmen 

The  WMTMINITKK  BIOGRAFHIXS  arc  uniform  in  plan, 
siie,  and  general  make-up  with  the  BBACON  BiOGRArmn, 
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they  deal  with  the  lives  of  eminent  Englishmen  instead 
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photograrure,  a  calendar  of  dates,  And  A  bibliography  for 
further  reading. 

The  following  volume*  are  issued:  — 
Robert  Browning,  by  ARTHUR   WAVGU. 
Daniel  Def-OS,  by  WILFRED  WMITTEW. 
Adam  Duncan  (Lord  Camperdown),  by  H.  W.  WILDOM. 
George  EliOt,  by  CLARA  THOMSON. 
Cardinal  Newman,  by  A.  R.  WAU.E*. 
John  Wesley,  by  FRANK  BANFIILD. 

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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
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^ 


«rX-50 


LD*«rX-50m-8,'57 
(C8481slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


I 


1551)13' 


YC159392 


